


Take A Sad Song (And Make It Better)

by Femme (femmequixotic)



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Kidfic, M/M, epilogue compliant, post-DH
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-03
Updated: 2008-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-02 01:37:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 46,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femmequixotic/pseuds/Femme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last thing Harry wants is to lose his kids.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take A Sad Song (And Make It Better)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2008 hd_worldcup, Team Epilogue

The turntable needle dragged across the surface of the record with soft, muted thumps of diamond against vinyl for a moment before the quiet strum of the guitar echoed through the almost empty flat.

Harry fell back against the worn planks of the floor, staring up at the mildewed moulding that edged the bay window and circled the top of the sitting room walls. A draft swept over the stretch of skin between his jumper and the waistband of his jeans. He shivered. "Yesterday," he whispered, letting the music slide over him, "all my troubles seemed so far away..."

He took a slow drag off the cigarette in his fingers, breathing in the bitter smoke, rolling it around his tongue before he blew out a perfect ring. It drifted up against the ceiling and faded away.

Toenails clicked across the wooden floor and Godric, his beagle, thumped down next to him with a heavy sigh. He nuzzled up beneath Harry's arm, laying his head on his chest, and blinked up at him.

"Hey, boy," Harry murmured, and he let his hand rest on Godric's head for a moment. At least Ginny'd let him keep the dog, although Harry was pretty damn certain it was because she'd always hated walking him before bed.

"Oh, _Harry,_" Hermione said with a sigh as she set a bag of clothes down on top of a stack of boxes. They were filled with old Quidditch magazines and ratty albums that still smelled of dust and curry like the secondhand shop in Islington Harry had purchased them from.

It'd been just a block away from his house.

Harry watched bare tree branches sway upside-down in the wind outside the window, black against a dreary January sky. Rain slid down the glass; late afternoon light filtered wetly through, grey and cold. He hadn't even bothered with a heating charm or a proper fire in the hearth.

The Floo sputtered and coughed weakly and another bag skittered across the room, smacking into Harry's foot. He could hear Ron's angry, if muffled, shout through the open connection and Ginny's tight _Christ, Ron, just leave him be, will you please?_ before the Floo clanged closed again and the fire settled back to embers.

"At least it's not the White Album," he said finally, and he twisted his fingers in the thick wool of his jumper. A fingertip poked through one of the cable-knit columns. "Or Exile on Main Street, I suppose."

"Let's avoid the Stones, shall we?" Hermione dropped down next to Harry, pulling her knees to her chest. She took the cigarette from him and stubbed it out in the saucer—already filled with ashes and cigarette butts. With her hair twisted back in a loose knot, a few stray curls falling around her face, she looked younger than her forty-two years. Only the small wrinkles at the corners of her eyes betrayed her age. She smoothed Harry's fringe back from his forehead, her fingers featherlight against his scar.

_Yesterday, love was such an easy game to play,_ Paul mourned, and the record skipped on a scratch, catching for a moment.

"I'll make some tea, shall I?" Hermione said finally, her voice thick.

Harry caught her wrist before she could get up. "Don't." A branch slammed against the side of the building, scraping across brick and glass. He turned his head and pressed his cheek into Hermione's thigh. "I've cocked up, haven't I?"

There was a long silence, and then Hermione sighed. "Rather a bit, yes, love."

"She's not going to take me back."

"No." Hermione looked at him evenly and it made Harry's stomach clench. "She'd be an idiot to after what you've done."

His throat tightened. "I know." Harry caught his bottom lip between his teeth and blinked up at her through fingerprint-smudged glasses. "I didn't mean to—"

"Don't lie to me," Hermione said tiredly. "Two affairs over the past six months aren't a one-night stand. You knew exactly what you were doing." She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Both times. You can't tell me this isn't what you wanted."

Harry stared back up at the ceiling. A crack ran from the light in the centre to one corner; a spider crawled across chipped paint, a faint brown splash of legs in the shadows.

Hermione sighed and clambered to her feet, brushing the dust off her jeans. "I need tea, even if you don't."

"I'm sorry." Harry sat up quickly; the room spun for a moment, and Godric jerked away from him with a sharp bark. Harry caught himself on the edge of a trunk, the wood digging into his palm. He hadn't eaten in two days, he realised with a jolt. He wasn't certain what he'd done since Wednesday.

He didn't even think he'd gone to work. Or called in. Shacklebolt'd be on a rampage Monday morning.

"Don't be sorry," Hermione said. Her arms were crossed over her cardigan; she shivered as the wind gusted against the windows again. "The milk's already been spilt. Nothing left to do but mop it up and hope the glass doesn't cut too deeply." She turned towards the tiny galley kitchen with its ancient appliances and stained floor. Two small boxes were perched on the cracked tile countertop. "I packed our old kettle for you, and a few plates and cups—"

"Ron didn't shout?" Harry rubbed his palm over one elbow as he stood up.

Hermione dug through one of the boxes, frowning. "Of course he did." She pulled out a half-empty box of PG Tips and a scratched aluminium kettle which she filled with water from the sink. A tap of her wand on the cooker, and it began to heat, bubbling almost immediately. "After what you did to Ginny, Ron wouldn't willingly give you a bloody Knut. Cups, please."

Two heavy white mugs were tucked into one corner of the box. Harry broke the cushioning charm holding them still. He handed them to Hermione and leaned against the countertop. "Is he ever going to forgive me?"

The teakettle shrieked loudly and rattled over the blue-orange flames in the burner, shouting for someone to take it _off the bloody heat, for Christ's sake, please._

"Sooner than Gin will, I'd say." Hermione poured the water over the tea in the mugs. "But he's still pretty narked at you." She set the shuddering kettle down and looked at Harry with a sigh. "What on earth were you thinking?"

Harry rubbed his thumb along the edge of his pocket. The worn denim scraped his callused skin, catching on the rough ridges. "I don't know."

"Really." The kettle burbled and, with a _much better there, love_, breathed out a long slow burst of steam. Hermione tilted it over the sink; the hot water drained out. Her mouth tightened and Harry tensed. He knew that look all too well. "You don't know why you slept with a man? Twice?"

"I was curious—"

Hermione slammed the kettle into the sink, ignoring its sharp whistle as it snapped at her fingertips. "Sleeping with two men doesn't make you curious, Harry; it makes you gay."

_Fuck._ Harry staggered back a step; the handle of the oven dug into his hip. "I'm _not_ gay," he snapped, and he rocked up onto the balls of his feet, his shoulders tense. "It just _happened—_"

"And," Hermione snapped, ignoring him, "it makes you an utter bastard that you'd have to sleep around on your wife because you were too scared to actually realise that maybe you might like men above women, which is something you _should_ have realised twenty years ago except you were too set on a perfect Weasley family to replace your Mum and Dad—"

The light above them exploded in a shower of sparks and mist, the fragments of glass disappearing into the thick air around them. Hermione fell silent, breathing hard. Harry's fingernails dug into his palms; his jaw tightened.

Long shadows stretched across the kitchen. The turntable clicked and its arm moved back to the start of the record. Godric settled down again next to the Floo, curling up on a corner of a blanket he'd tugged from a half-open box.

"Just stop," Harry said at last, voice tight and quiet. He could feel his magic settle again, ebbing away with his anger.

Hermione cast a _Lumos_; the faint light bounced between them. "It's true, Harry. You should have known." Her shoulders slumped and Harry felt a pang of guilt. "This makes everything so _difficult_—" She broke off and fingered the stretched neck of her jumper, twisting a loose yarn around her thumb.

Neither of them said anything for a long moment. Hermione stared down at the mugs, banishing the tea leaves with an absent sweep of her wand over the curling steam. She pushed a mug towards Harry. "There's no milk or sugar."

"I'll live." The mug was heavy and warm against Harry's palms. He took a sip, letting the bitter heat roll over his tongue. It was comforting, soothing.

Hermione rubbed her thumbnail over a stain on the countertop. "You should go to market. I can owl an order from Whittingstone's for you—"

"I can get my own groceries," Harry said, and he smiled faintly as he brushed his knuckles over the back of her hand.

"Right." She blinked hard. "I know; I just..."

"I know."

Hermione pressed her mouth together; her eyes were too bright. "It's just all so bloody awful—and then there's the children—Rose says Lily's been crying herself to sleep all week, you know."

Harry's stomach clenched. This was his fault. He knew it. He'd fucked up and nothing he could do was going to put it back together. His marriage was over; he'd lost the whole Weasley family—_his_ family, by choice if not birth. His children were stunned, angry, bitter. They'd every right to be. James hadn't spoken to him since they'd told the kids, sitting together in the kitchen after breakfast two days after New Year's. Ginny'd insisted on Harry explaining to them what he'd done. Why he was moving out. Why she couldn't live with him any longer.

Not that he could blame her for that.

The shit of it was that he didn't even know why he'd done it. Not the first time; not the second. He'd been happy with Ginny. Or he thought he'd been. Sure they'd argued from time to time, but everyone did. Fuck, he'd lost count of how many times he'd come downstairs in the morning to find Ron on his couch, sheepishly admitting he'd had another row with Hermione after the kids went to bed.

He and Gin, they'd not been like that. They'd been friends. He'd always been able to go to her with anything. Until the kids were all in school, at least.

Everything'd gone to hell then.

He didn't think he'd ever forget the look on his children's faces when he told them, his voice catching and cracking, that he was moving out because he'd cheated on their mum. With men. Albus Severus had been paler than Harry'd ever seen his son. James hadn't even been able to look at him. And Lily...

Nothing had hurt him so much as her quiet, shaky _Please don't leave us, Daddy_.

"You'll bring Lils over, won't you? The boys too, if they want." Harry pushed his glasses up. His hand barely shook, but he knew Hermione noticed. He felt empty suddenly. Tired. He needed a cigarette, damn it. "I know Ginny doesn't care to have me around the house, but —"

"Don't be an idiot," Hermione said thickly, and she rubbed the heel of her palm across her eyes. "Honestly, Harry, as if I'd keep you away from them."

She didn't pull away when his fingers curled around hers.

Harry was glad of that, at least.

***

There was a Tesco down High Street.

Harry supposed he could have Apparated into the Whittingstone's in Diagon Alley, but he'd rather push the bright blue trolley through a market crowded with tired Muggle housewives and strangely pierced teenagers than risk running into anyone he knew.

The trolley wheel creaked and caught as he turned down another aisle; Harry stared down at his growing mound of crisps and fish fingers, tubs of Pot Noodles and tins of rice pudding and Heinz beans. He hadn't cooked in years. Ginny always preferred to. It was soothing, she'd say, especially after a long day, and he'd sit at the table and talk to her over a beer, watching as she skinned potatoes and diced parsley and chopped lamb for the stew.

Her hair would always tumble into her face while she cooked, and, annoyed, she'd brush it back with a muttered vulgarity that would send her looking around behind her to make certain one of the kids hadn't walked in. Harry'd just laugh and reach for her, pulling her into his lap for a kiss—

"Watch yourself, mate." A boy barely older than James was frowning at him, his hand on the side of Harry's trolley, pushing it away from a display of biscuits at the end of the aisle.

Harry flushed and pulled the trolley back. He could hear the thumps of muted music from the boy's headphones. His scarf caught on the rough edge of the plastic handle. "Right. Sorry. Thanks."

Another turn and he found the beer he'd been looking for. Two cases of Boddingtons went beneath the trolley basket. Harry hesitated, studying the black and gold packages. "Fuck it," he muttered and threw another case on.

Getting pissed out of his mind didn't sound half bad tonight.

***

Harry didn't particularly like the chairs in his solicitor's office.

The leather creaked beneath him as he shifted, sitting forward with his hands between his knees, the navy wool of his Auror robes rubbing against his wrists. He hadn't even told Shacklebolt where he was going, just that he'd a personal errand to run, and he'd gotten that steady look from the Head Auror that always made Harry feel as if he should have paid a hell of a lot more attention to Snape's Occlumency lessons.

Flournoy set the papers down and eyed him from across the desk—his cravat spotless white beneath his black robe; his grey beard was neatly trimmed. "This won't be easy, you realise."

Harry just nodded. His head ached and he thought he might sick up. He probably should have stopped with the second beer last night. Or the fifth. At least.

"Particularly given that your wife is suing for divorce on grounds of your adultery—and sodomy at that." Flournoy raised an eyebrow at Harry. He could feel the distaste.

Harry flushed. "Does that have to be made public?"

"I can assure you that even if the Wizengamot seals the record—which they are highly unlikely to do with you, might I point out, due to your position as Deputy Auror and your social status—"

Harry snorted.

"Even if they do so," Flournoy continued, ignoring him, "your wife's solicitors would be utter imbeciles not to bring it to public attention. And as neither Cratsley nor Hale are that foolish, she'll have an automatic sympathy element we'll have to consider." Flournoy tapped his quill against the blotter on his desk, staring down at the papers spread before him. He frowned. "Public opinion will play a certain factor, of course. Has she any affairs of her own that we can use against her?"

"No."

Flournoy looked disappointed. "No instances of bad mothering?"

"No," Harry snapped, tensing in his chair. "I'm not going to slag her off in front of the whole bloody country, all right? I just don't want to spend a weekend once a month with my kids."

"Of course." Flournoy leaned back and steepled his fingers. "The difficulty is that she's requesting full custodial rights, and it's highly likely given current standards of our society—" He held up a hand as Harry's mouth tightened. "The fact is, Mr Potter, you're contesting neither the adultery nor the homosexual aspect of it, nor are you interested in showing your wife's faults as a mother. From what you've told me, the great majority of your friends and family have taken her side over yours, thus obtaining you custodial rights at all will be somewhat of a battle. Are you prepared for that?"

Harry raised his chin. "They're my kids. What do you think?"

"Well, then." Flournoy smiled, teeth sharp and white. "We'll just play up the Saviour of the Wizarding World angle, shall we?"

Harry sighed.

***

A camera flash went off in Harry's face as soon as he stepped into the Ministry lift.

He stumbled back into the wall, blinking away the brightness as familiar sharp fingernails dug into his arm. A flurry of interoffice memos flapped around his head before settling.

Bloody fucking perfect. There wasn't any way Flournoy'd been that quick to contact them; it had to be Ginny's solicitors. Harry gritted his teeth.

"So, Harry, is it true you and Gins are splitsville?" An auburn-haired woman blinked at him from behind wire-rimmed glasses, the latest Quick Quotes Quill—this one dark aubergine—hovering next to her.

"Fuck off, Orla, and as I recall you've already been banned from skulking in the Ministry lifts once." Harry scowled at the Prophet's latest incarnation of Rita bloody Skeeter. Quirke was a giant pain in his arse on a good day.

This was not a good day.

"Nothing illegal about taking a lift up and down," she said calmly. "Particularly when it's public property. You'd think the Deputy Head of the Auror force would be more familiar with Wizarding Statute 3489-76, paragraph 12, clause C."

"Shouldn't you be off stirring up more protests about the Minister's policies?" Harry snapped. He'd had to push through a throng of Prophet-waving wizards and witches angry about the upcoming Death Eater parole hearings just to get through the Ministry Atrium to the lifts in the first place. More than one of them had grabbed his arm and given him an earful about not letting any of _that kind_ out of Azkaban. Ever.

Quirke smiled at him sweetly. "Shouldn't you be out there, keeping the rabblerousers subdued?"

"Your left side's your best, Harry." Dennis Creevey darted in front of him; the camera flash went off again. "Tip your chin a bit, will you?"

Harry glared at him. "Get a real sodding job, Dennis."

Dennis grinned and the flash exploded in Harry's face again. "Only when you stop selling papers, mate." He let the camera fall back to his side. "So you and Gin really are done?"

"I don't know who you've been talking to—" Harry began, only to be cut off by Quirke's too-bright laugh.

"You're not really going to call Frederick Cratsley a liar, are you?" Quirke's quill quivered in anticipation. "We've just come from his office, after all." Quirke glanced down at her notes. "I'm quite sure he mentioned divorce on grounds of adultery and a quick resolution in the Wizengamot?"

Harry swore and the quill scrawled across the paper. "No comment."

Quirke frowned. "But surely you want to give your side—"

"No," Harry said tightly, and he stepped off the lift onto level two. The doors started to close behind him. "I _really_ don't."

A pale hand caught the lift doors and Quirke's face peered around. "Now, come on, Harry, that's duff and we all know it—"

Harry walked past two Aurors, barely out of Hogwarts. They snapped to attention; he nodded to them. "Care to do me a favour, lads?"

"Right, sir," the taller one said, a grin spreading across his freckled face. "Be glad to take care of it for you." They stepped around him, pulling their wands from the holsters on their sides.

"Just the name of the woman, Harry," Quirke shouted from behind him. "That's all we'll need—get your hands off me for Merlin's sake. Do you _know_ how expensive this robe is, you bloody dobber? I'll have you splashed across the Prophet front page in a story on Auror brutality—-watch your _hands!_ Harry! Harry, a quote about the hearings then, will you? Give me something, love! _Harry!_"

Harry looked back, his hand on the door to Auror Headquarters. Dennis smirked at him from the lift doors and hefted his camera. Harry raised two fingers defiantly.

The flash went off again.

***

"They're gone to fucking school two-thirds of the year, Ginny," Harry snapped. He clenched his hands on the arms of his chair. "One weekend a month during hols leaves me _eight_ bloody days with them. No. Forget it." He looked over at Flournoy. "I won't agree to it."

Cratsley leaned across the gleaming mahogany table; his rumpled grey-brown hair fell into his eyes. "Mrs Potter thinks that it's a very generous offer, given that we _could_ ask for only supervised visits."

"Fuck you." Harry slammed his palm against the tabletop. The lights flickered above. "Can I smoke? I need a cigarette."

"Harry," Flournoy said quietly, putting his hand on Harry's arm. Harry breathed out and tightened his fists. Flournoy looked across the table at Ginny and her solicitor. "Mr Potter is correct; it's an entirely unacceptable offer."

"We're not prepared to go further." Cratsley leaned back in his chair. "Mr Potter, after all, _is_ at fault in this matter, and, of course, there's the concern regarding his moral character—"

"Ginny." Harry looked at his wife. She was pale and silent, her fingers twisted together, one thumbnail scraping over a knuckle.

"Don't, Harry," she whispered, and her lashes were wet. "You did this to all of us. You could have—" She broke off, her jaw tightening. "You didn't have to do what you did. We were _happy_."

"I'm sorry." Harry reached across the table; Ginny pulled back.

"Don't," she said again. "I don't want to hear it."

Harry's throat tightened; he could barely breathe. "Ginny, please. They're my kids too—" His voice cracked and she looked away, blinking hard. "Please."

The room was silent.

Ginny stared down at her clasped hands. "I want you to hurt," she said finally, her voice flat. "I want to take everything away from you the way you did to me. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'll regret it later. I'm sure I will. But right now, Harry—" She looked up at him and Harry's breath caught at the anger in her eyes. "Right now, at this moment, I hate you just as much as I ever loved you."

The solicitors turned away.

***

A bitter cold wind whipped through the East Stand of the Lane, sending thousands of blue and white scarves fluttering.

"So she's really going through with it then?" Dean asked, leaning forward. His eyes were on the field below, watching Tottenham's defence corner one of Arsenal's strikers. "Come on, come on, come on, _yes!"_ He leapt up with half the stand, fist in the air. "Take that you fucking sods—"

Harry took a swig from his plastic bottle of Carlsberg and watched Dean in amusement as he fell back into his seat. "Since when did you become a Spurs supporter?"

"I'll support Voldemort's fucking ghost if it means Arsenal goes down in the points." Dean reached for his own beer. "Fucking shits. Did you see what they did to West Ham last match?"

"Missed it, what with the move. Barclays bollocksed up the Gringotts' transfer again, so I just now paid the telly licence fees." Harry shot to his feet as Tottenham took the ball down field. "Are they going to—"

"Come _on_!" Dean shouted. "Get your fucking finger out, Lennon, you stupid waster—fuck me, don't be standing about pissing in the wind! _Christ!_ Pass it, _pass_ it—"

_"Yes!"_ Harry slammed against Dean as the ball went into the net and Arsenal's wingback was yellowcarded. He pulled his blue and white cap down over his chilled ears. There were too many Muggles around to try a warming charm. "As for Gin, you read the Prophet."

Dean lifted his bottle to his mouth. "Never know how much to believe in Orla's stories."

"She's actually not far off this time." Harry blew on his cold fingers and leaned back against his seat. "Missed a few details though."

Dean didn't say anything for a moment. "So I should be decking you for Gin's sake, then."

"Probably." Harry stared down at the field. Arsenal were heading through the center circle, passing the ball between their midfielders. He'd always brought Albus Severus to the Tottenham matches. Al liked football almost as much as he liked Quidditch; Lily hadn't minded it, but James had never cared much for the Muggle sport. "Didn't say I wasn't a shit." With a sigh, Harry drained his beer. "Just ask Ron."

"I imagine." Dean studied him. "You look like you could stand talking to someone. In a bloke way, that is." He made a face. "None of that _talk about your feelings_ shite that Katie puts me through. Christ. Women. Anyway, buy you a pint after the game and you can tell me?"

Harry smiled faintly. "I could let you do that."

"Done, then." Dean clapped Harry's shoulder as the crowd around them surged forward with a roar and a shower of beer from the upper tier as another goal was scored.

***

The Antwerp was packed with Tottenham supporters.

"The pride of North of London were the kings of White Hart Lane," Harry sang along with them, hanging from Dean's shoulder, "and the Spurs go marching on..."

"You, mate," Dean said as he shoved Harry into a chair, "are well on your way to being pissed out of your mind."

"Isn't it _brilliant?_" Harry slouched down in the chair, resting his head against the wall. He closed his eyes and hummed. "Glory glory, Tottenham Hotspur..."

His eyes flew open when the barmaid set a pint of bitter in front of him. "You are _beautiful_," he said and he reached for the glass. His head was buzzing pleasantly and it was warm and dark in the corner of the pub.

"So." Dean looked at him over the rim of his glass. "Talk."

"Not much to say." Harry watched the thick head of his beer bubble.

Dean snorted. "Really. You're getting a divorce after twenty years of marriage and there's nothing much to say. Seems like you're taking the end rather bloody well. You've another bird lined up already?"

"No." Harry rubbed his thumbnail over the sticky pub table. "No one." He looked up at Dean, and the words came tumbling out. "I don't know what happened. One day we were fine, or I thought we were. And then after Lils was off at Hogwarts, I looked across the table at supper and realised that Gin and I stopped talking years ago. We talked to the kids and through the kids and then when they were gone..." He sighed. "She spent more time in the bath and I stayed downstairs watching telly. Until hols came around."

Dean nodded. "Empty nest syndrome."

"What?" Harry lifted his glass and took a long drink, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

"It's what my mum called it when she and Dad split up after my sister married the arse." Dean leaned back in his chair. "Your kids leave home and the next thing you know you're divorcing because you've nothing in common with the person sleeping with you now."

"I reckon," Harry said. He stared across the pub at a patch of blurred blue-and-white jumpers crowded around the dartboard. A groan went up from the group, along with shouts of _another round for me lads_, and Harry ran a hand through his hair. "And then things have been difficult with James this year—"

"Thought he was Head Boy." Dean pulled his coat tighter against a burst of cold wind from the door and hunched over the table.

"He was. He turned it down." Harry sighed, frustrated. James had been off since he'd come home for summer hols. Harry hadn't even noticed at first; he'd been so busy at work that he'd brushed aside Ginny's worry. Teenagers were teenagers, after all, and what was a spot of sullenness? He'd get over it soon enough, Harry'd told Gin.

It'd taken James accidentally snapping Albus's arm in an angry tussle before Harry realised he was wrong.

"I don't know what to do with him any more." Harry drained half his beer but the pleasant buzz from earlier was gone. His shoulders slumped. "He was angry enough before. Now Hermione says even Ron can't get him to talk and he gave up Quidditch last term."

"He was captain—"

"I know." Harry shook his head.

Dean didn't say anything for a moment. "Reckon he knew anything about your troubles with Gin?"

"Maybe. He might not be the swotty Potter, but he's bright." Harry rubbed his face. "I'm pretty certain he didn't know about the—" He swallowed. "The affairs."

"Plural." Dean's fingers tightened on his glass. "As in more than one."

"Yeah."

"Really fucking shitty of you, mate."

"I know." The silence stretched out between them. Harry couldn't meet Dean's eyes.

With a sigh, Dean shifted in his chair. "What were you thinking, Harry? It's not like Gin's not bloody gorgeous. I don't even know how you could have looked at another woman, you stupid shit. Or more than one for that matter."

"Right. About that...it wasn't exactly a woman."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Veela then?"

"Not really." Harry finished his beer and took a deep breath. Fuck it. Just get it out. "Remember Zacharias Smith?"

When Dean's fist crunched into his cheek it was a fucking relief.

***

No matter what Hagrid said, Harry thought, raw meat _didn't_ bloody help heal a black eye any damn faster.

"Dad," Lily shouted, running into the kitchen. Godric bounded in after her, barking happily and ears flopping, and Lily dropped to the floor. "Miss me, boy?" Godric flopped onto his back and bared his belly with a whine.

"I think that's a yes," Harry said, laughing.

Lily blinked at Harry as she tossed her coat on the counter. "What happened to you?"

Harry touched his bruised jaw. "Terrible fight with a troll at work. Horrific. It took me and five Aurors to wrestle him to the floor—"

"_Dad._ You work behind a desk."

"What?" Harry grinned at his daughter. "You don't think a troll could burst into the Ministry?"

Lily narrowed her eyes at him. "Not without it being on the front page of the Prophet."

She tugged at her argyle socks, pulling them up over her knobby knees. There was still a two-inch stretch of freckled leg between them and the ruffled hem of her denim skirt. Harry decided against pointing this fact out. Gin had let her out of the house, after all.

"I'm fine, love. Really." He ruffled her hair. She looked remarkably like her mum; Harry's heart twisted.

"Lily, help your brother with the box in the Floo before he breaks his back," Hermione said, shooing her niece towards the sitting room. The dog jumped up and raced after her. "I picked up a few dishes and such for your flat while I was in Diagon Alley last night, and don't give me that look, Harry James Potter. You can't keep using plastic cutlery for all your meals."

"Easier to do the washing up," Harry pointed out. "Should she be wearing that skirt?" He frowned as his daughter bent over one end of a wide wooden box sticking from the tiny Floo.

"Don't even start." Hermione sighed and leaned against the counter. She rubbed her temple. "Your daughter's twelve-going-on-twenty-four and there was quite the row already about it this morning. I'd not want to be Luna when Ginny gives her an earful about the godmother's responsibility to not advocate the strumpet look, whatever the new styles might be." She frowned at Harry. "What happened to your face?"

Harry shrugged. "Dean didn't particularly like the idea of me fucking around on Gin with blokes. Seems like it would have been better if it was just another woman or three."

"Oh, Harry—" The quiet sympathy in Hermione's voice annoyed Harry. He tensed and pulled away, walking into the sitting room to check on his children.

"Like a bit of help?" he asked and Lily, face red, dug her fingers into the edge of the box and shook her head. Godric barked.

"_Push_, you big nancy," she snapped, and her brother's _Oh, shut it, Lil, I'm trying_ echoed inside the Floo. Harry bit the inside of his cheek and flicked his wand towards the box.

With a loud pop, it flew free, sending Lily sprawling across the floor; Harry pretended he didn't hear her muffled _fuck_. Albus Severus stumbled out of the Floo, face streaked with soot, and collapsed across the end of the box. Godric jumped up on his back paws, licking Albus's face.

"Hi, Dad," he mumbled weakly, batting the dog away. "I _told_ Aunt Hermione she should have miniaturised it."

Harry tried not to laugh as Hermione rolled her eyes. She pushed herself off the counter. "I'll be back at five," she said to Harry and he nodded. Ginny and her solicitors had finally agreed to one afternoon a week, and Harry'd taken it against Flournoy's wishes. One afternoon was better than nothing.

The flat was oddly quiet after Hermione left; Lily and Al shifted uneasily, looking around the nearly empty sitting room. Harry'd put a few bookcases up, filling them with records and a few photographs of his children. A telly sat in the corner on top of Harry's old school trunk, and he'd bought a comfortable leather chair with arms wide enough to set a beer or two on. Godric jumped up on it, staring from Albus to Lily wistfully. He whined, and Harry smoothed his hand over the dog's back.

"You don't have much furniture," Albus said finally. He pushed his glasses up his nose.

"Not yet," Harry agreed. "I thought maybe you lot could help me pick out a few things."

Albus shrugged and shoved his hands in his pockets. He was fourteen now—almost fifteen in another four months—and the quietest of Harry's three children. Awkward and scrawny and painfully shy, Albus was the one Harry worried about the most. He always had. Lily and James had always been the social ones, surrounded by cousins and friends while Albus curled himself in the corner, lost in his own thoughts. Even now, four years into Hogwarts, he kept to himself; Harry seldom heard him talk about his classmates or his friends.

Lily chewed her bottom lip. "Can't you move home, Dad?" Her voice trembled just enough. "Please? We miss you—or Al and I do. James is a giant twat about it all—"

"He's still angry with you." Albus lifted his chin. "Maybe we should be too."

Harry nodded. "You probably should be." He smoothed Lily's hair back; she wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her face against his chest. "And I miss you too, love, all of you. But your mum and I—"

"I _hate_ Mum," Lily mumbled into his shirt. "I hate her."

"Hey." Harry pulled back. "No, you don't. And she didn't go through eleven hours of labour with you just to have you treat her like shite, you know."

Lily glared at him mulishly, her eyes bright. "But if she'd let you come home—"

Harry brushed his thumb beneath her eye, wiping away a stray tear. "I can't. Even if I could, I don't think I should."

"You don't love us." Lily jerked away; Harry caught her and pulled her back to him. She was stiff against his side; Harry rubbed his palm over her shoulder until she relaxed a bit into him.

"You know that's not true." Harry looked over her head at Albus. His son's hair was in his face, hanging over the rims of his glasses. He shifted from one foot to the other, arms crossed, fingers twisted in his worn woollen peacoat. It was a size or three larger than he needed; Harry suspected he'd begged it off one of his uncles. Probably Charlie. "It's just better this way right now. Things will settle down the road. I promise."

Both his children gave him identical, disbelieving scowls and Harry sighed. He couldn't blame them, really. "Fish and chips, what say? The really greasy kind your mum doesn't like you to eat?"

Albus gave him a half-smile. "Extra chips?"

"You can nick your sister's," Harry said, Summoning Lily's coat from the kitchen.

Lily squawked and Harry grinned as Godric jumped off the chair and headed for the door, Albus at his heels, leash in hand.

Christ. He missed his kids.

***

"Budge over." Harry nudged Albus's foot; his son slid over on the bench he was slouched on. Harry handed him another wad of greasy newsprint wrapped around fresh-fried cod and potatoes—Albus had already inhaled his own and half his sister's—and sat down, taking a sip of scalding coffee from the paper cup he held. Smoke curled from a lit cigarette between his fingers, twisting around their heads before drifting away into the grey sky. "Drowned the bastards in vinegar as requested."

"Thanks." Albus chewed on a chip, eyes on Lily. She was crouched on the bank of Regent's Canal with Godric, watching the water rush past. She'd caught her long red hair back with a sparkling purple butterfly she'd talked Harry into buying for her a few streets over in Camden Lock Market, and in return Harry'd coerced her to let him transfigure her knee socks into tights with the argument that it was too bloody damn cold for her to be walking about with bare skin showing.

Judging from the goosebumps on her legs, he suspected her protest had only been token.

Harry nicked a chip, mouth puckering at the mealy sourness. "How's she doing?" he asked quietly, not looking at his son.

Albus hesitated. "All right, I reckon." He wiped his fingers on his jeans, leaving behind wide swipes of grease and vinegar. "She shouts at Mum a lot and then they both cry a bit but pretend they're not which makes James angrier." He bit his lip. "Dad, the things he says about you—"

"He can say them." Harry stared across the canal. Bare tree branches framed the brick buildings of Camden Town. He took a drag off his cigarette and exhaled slowly. The smoke was acrid against his tongue. "Better if he does."

"Mum gets upset." Albus sighed and dragged the toe of his trainer over the dead grass. "She says she doesn't want him talking about you like that." He glanced over at Harry. "She doesn't hate you, you realise."

"I know." Harry bumped his knee against Albus's. He took another sip of coffee. "And I don't hate your mum."

Albus met his eyes. "Do you love her still?"

Harry took his time answering. He'd been asking himself the same question for months. "Yes," he said finally, "but differently than I did before."

"Is it because of sex then?"

Harry nearly choked. He dabbed at the coffee he'd spilled on his coat. "What?"

"Well, you cheated on her with blokes," Albus said, blinking at him. "Seems like it has to be an issue." He tilted his head; his hair shadowed his eyes. "Are you a poof?"

"No." Harry shook his head, feeling his cheeks warm. It wasn't a subject he even wanted to think about; he'd shoved it to the back of his mind since all this started. "I'm...I don't know." Harry trailed off. He didn't know _who_ he was any more. Not really. "Christ, Al. I'm not talking about this with you, all right?"

"Okay." Albus shrugged. "I'll just talk to Professor Snape then." At Harry's frown, he rolled his eyes. "Oh, don't worry. He doesn't gossip with the other portraits."

"That's not what I'm worried about." Harry sighed. He tapped his cigarette against the seat of the bench. Ash drifted across the clay walk. "Al, you need friends."

"I _like_ Professor Snape," Albus said through a mouth of fish. "He's not an idiot."

Harry snorted. "I'm sure he'd be pleased to know you think that. However—"

"He's practically my godfather," Albus protested. "You named me after him, and besides, Dad, he talks to me. Like he's actually interested." He looked away, a flush on his cheeks. "And he doesn't think I'm a freak. Or well, not much of one, at least."

They fell silent. Harry watched as Lily pushed herself up, brushing dirt and leaves off her legs. Godric bounced around her, barking, his leash swinging off her wrist as she tugged the butterfly out of her hair and shook her curls loose. By the way she tilted her head, he knew she wasn't entirely oblivious to the Muggle boys passing her on the towpath. Harry's heart dropped. His kids were growing up.

"You're not a freak," he said finally. He dropped his cigarette onto the ground, grinding it out with his heel.

Albus just nodded, staring down into the newsprint wadded in his hands. "I have a friend or two, you know," he said after a moment. "I just don't talk about them."

Harry twisted his cup between his hands. "You could. I'd like to hear—"

"No," Albus said sharply. "You wouldn't."

"That's not true."

Albus looked up then, mouth tight. "You've never wanted to listen before. Not you and not Mum and now all of a sudden because you're splitting up you both want me to talk, and I don't want to." He shook his head. "I don't need to. Not to you."

"Christ." Harry rubbed his thumb around the rim of his cup. "Look, Al, I know I've made mistakes—"

With a sigh, Albus slumped further down the bench. "I just don't want to talk. It doesn't mean you're a bad father." He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and stared out at the canal. "You're not."

Neither of them said anything. Lily and Godric had wandered down the path, far too close to the boys still lingering down by the bridge for Harry's peace of mind. He frowned and narrowed his eyes. Boys that age weren't to be trusted. He remembered being sixteen and all too eager to get into Ginny's knickers in any way he could.

Harry drained his coffee and stood. "We should probably head home. Aunt Hermione'll be waiting—"

"Dad," Albus said, voice catching, and Harry waited, watching as his son tore a strip of newsprint, rolling it between his fingers then letting it drift to the ground. Albus looked up at last. "I just—if you figure you're a poof, you know," he said in a rush. "I just want you to know..." He caught his bottom lip between his teeth and glanced away. "I don't care what James says. I reckon it's okay with me."

Harry's throat tightened. "Thanks," he murmured, and he mussed Albus's hair. His son ducked his head and pulled away with a muffled _Jesus, Dad_. Harry laughed and hooked his arm around Albus's neck as he called Lily over.

Maybe things weren't as bad as they could be.

***

The train whistle blew—far too bloody bright and merry for this hour of the morning, Harry thought.

He steeled himself, straightening his shoulders and ignoring the curious looks he got as he walked down Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters, towards the flash of red hair through the roiling drifts of steam.

The children were already in their school robes—Lily and James with scarves of red and gold at their throats, Albus Severus with his arms wrapped tight around his chest, trying not to draw attention to his blue and bronze. He looked miserable; Harry wasn't certain if it was from his older brother's teasing or the prospect of another term to be endured. Or both.

"Dad!" Lily was already running towards him. Ron scowled at Harry; Hermione touched his arm and whispered something in his ear.

Harry hugged his daughter, then looked over at his wife. "Gin."

She glanced at him quickly. "Harry." James stepped closer to his mother, his mouth tight.

"Hello, James," Harry said, and his eldest son stared at him silently. Harry wasn't surprised; James had always been closer to Ginny, even as a baby. Gin had been the one to rock him through sleepless bouts of colic that first year, sending Harry back to bed despite his offers of help. Harry hadn't argued overly much. Sometimes, though, with years of hindsight, he wondered if that had been a mistake.

One of many he'd made.

"Wouldn't have thought you'd show up," Ron growled and he moved in front of his sister, his jaw tight as he looked Harry up and down.

Hermione sighed. "Ron—"

"Wouldn't have thought you'd object to me sending my kids off for term," Harry said lightly, and Ron fell back with a glare. Harry's fingers slid over Lily's shoulder; she looked up at him, uncertain. He smiled down at her. "No getting into trouble this term, right? Good marks, no detentions, no sneaking out late at night for a bit of Quidditch on the pitch again, no nipping into Neville's greenhouse to nick a bit of mallowsweet to go along with your wild butterbeer parties."

"Harry," Ginny snapped and he grinned.

Lily wrinkled her nose. "There goes all my fun."

Harry ruffled her hair and looked over at his sons. "Same goes for you two."

"Might want to pound it into _his_ bloody thick skull," Albus muttered and he hunched his shoulders as James took a swing at him.

"Oi!" Harry caught James' wrist; his son jerked back. "Watch yourself." Harry looked over at Albus. "And you with the smart tongue—"

"You should go," Ginny said quietly, meeting Harry's gaze. Her jaw was tight, her eyes bright. "It's almost time for the train, and you've work..." She shivered as a cold breeze swept down the platform, fluttering the tassels of her lemon yellow scarf. "Please, Harry. It'd be better for everyone."

The children were silent, staring down at the worn bricks beneath their feet. Harry nodded. "Right. Okay. Good term, then, you lot, and your Mum and I will see you at hols—" His voice broke. He said the same thing to them each time they'd brought them to King's Cross the past seven years. This time they all knew he was lying.

Everything had changed.

"I should go," Harry murmured and Ginny nodded, reaching for Lily.

Harry shoved his hands in his pockets, blinking hard as his daughter looked back at him, her face nearly as miserable as Albus's.

He turned and walked away.

***

The owl arrived three nights later.

_Mr Potter, _

At the recommendation of Edmund Flournoy, solicitor of record to Harry James Potter, and Frederick Cratsley, solicitor of record for Ginevra Molly Weasley Potter, and upon the filing of divorce petition form D8A, Ginevra Weasley Potter v Harry James Potter, rec'vd 04 January, 2023, and with full approval of the Wizengamot (Family Division), the Children and Family Wizengamot Advisory and Support Services will be undertaking an exploratory mediation regarding the custody and residence of Albus Severus Potter, age 14 years and Lily Luna Potter, age 12 years. James Sirius Potter, age 17 years, is exempt being of full majority under wizarding law.

You are hereby required to report at eleven o'clock in the morning, 26 January, 2023 to the Children and Family Wizengamot Advisory and Support Services, Ministry of Magic, where your case will be assigned to a family reporter responsible for providing a complete recommendation to the Wizegamot (Family Division) regarding the proper custody and residence of Albus Severus Potter and Lily Luna Potter.

Yours, etc.   
Agnes M. Pomeroy  
Head, Children and Family Wizengamot Advisory and Support Services

"Bloody fucking bollocks." Harry balled the note up and threw it across the room. Godric lifted his head from his bed near the hearth and blinked as it landed next to the pile of empty crisps bags and Chinese takeaway boxes that had tumbled out of the rubbish bin. Harry supposed he should give a damn. Instead he Summoned another Boddington's and switched on the telly. Tottenham was playing Chelsea tonight. Might as well get smashed out of his fucking mind.

Harry slouched in his chair, feet propped on an upturned box, the green stretch of the football field reflected in the dark window beside him. He took a swig of warm beer and turned the volume up.

It was going to be a long bloody week.

***

Harry'd known eventually Ron would blow up.

It wasn't that he blamed him. Ron had always had a bit of a temper and there wasn't a Weasley brother who didn't try to overprotect their sister. It'd always driven Gin a bit mad; she'd spent twenty-five years complaining to him about it. Harry wondered what she thought of it now.

"You're fucking undermining my authority," Ron snapped and he slammed the folders on Harry's desk. "What the hell are you doing, reassigning _my_ Aurors—"

"Jesus, Ron." Harry rubbed the bridge of his nose. His fucking head ached. "You know we're tight on manhours with the hearings starting up next week and even if we weren't, I'm still your superior officer—"

"—and I should step back and let you bugger my team up the arse, right?" Ron turned on his heel; his robe snapped around his ankles. "Oh, but I forgot, you like doing that now, don't you? Fancy a bit of arse to shove your prick into? Want us to bend over and grab our knees so you can pick the best one?"

"Fuck off." Harry tensed, his eyes flicking over to the open door.

Ron smirked, a bitter twist of his lips to one side that Harry knew all too well. "Afraid everyone will hear you're a sodding poof now? Too bad. They already—"

"Weasley." Shacklebolt leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed. He raised an eyebrow. "Don't you have some field training to do?"

Ron glared at him. "With _who?_ This fucking bastard cut half my team—"

"On my orders." Shacklebolt's jaw tightened. "Now, I'd recommend you take your Aurors out to the training field and run manoeuvres with them to make certain they're ready for the next few weeks. Or have you forgotten we'll be guarding Death Eaters again?"

"I haven't forgotten." Ron's cheeks reddened. He scowled back at Harry. "How I'm supposed to be effective on these numbers—"

"Find a way. You're not my top strategist for bloody fucking nothing." Shacklebolt pushed off the wall. "And get out. I need to speak with Potter."

Ron slammed the door behind him.

"Jesus," Harry muttered as Shacklebolt took the seat across from him. "He's fucking mental sometimes."

"And he's not wrong." Shacklebolt frowned at him. "I told you to trim _some_ teams, not Weasley's."

Harry picked up his quill. "His team was bloated. Sanders, Mullen, and Hornsworth could easily be transferred."

"And Pires and Wickford? They're his two best." Shacklebolt steepled his fingers. Harry sighed.

"All right, I was a bit narked." He rubbed his thumb over the nub of his quill, smearing black ink over his skin. "He's been a shit the past two weeks."

Shacklebolt snorted. "Given current circumstances, I don't think I'd blame him."

"Christ." Harry tensed. "Not you too. Look, my personal life is personal—"

"And I have _no_ desire to hear the sordid details." Shacklebolt leaned forward. "However, when it affects my department, I step in. And this..." Shacklebolt waved his hand. "Whatever this is between the two of you, I'm done with it. If I have to sit through one more staff meeting with both of you scowling and glaring at each other, I _will_ hex your bollocks together. And I've been told that may possibly violate proper disciplinary measures. So instead I'm reinstating Pires and Wickford and switching your focus for the next few months."

Harry blinked. "What the hell are you on about?"

"New project, Potter." Shacklebolt flicked his wand at Harry's desk and a stack of folders appeared, papers rustling and whispering inside. "You're now in charge of Wizengamot security for the duration of the hearings." He smiled, a slow, predatory flash of teeth. "Including a new office down near their chambers. For your convenience, of course. And my sanity."

Harry stared at the folders. "So I'm being punished."

"No," Shacklebolt said slowly. "You're being promoted. In a way."

"This doesn't feel like a promotion."

Shacklebolt crossed his ankle over his knee. "Look, Potter. You're the best Auror I have when it comes to Dark spells. You can block them in your bloody sleep. And those files sitting in front of you happen to contain three months worth of threats against members of the Wizengamot _and_ any Death Eaters we bring out from Azkaban. Most of them are probably nutters, but this is an already volatile situation. It's been twenty-five bloody years, and people are still angry and frightened. There's no telling what could happen. I don't intend to find out. Understood?"

"Right." Harry reached for the first file. "Fine. When do we hear what Death Eaters are up for parole?"

"The Minister's office will release it to us by the end of next week." Shacklebolt stood up. "And it's eyes only. The Minister doesn't want anyone targeting the families."

"That's a possibility?" Harry blinked.

"Read the files." Shacklebolt checked his pocket watch, his hand on the doorknob. "And Potter? The Office of Information scheduled an interview for you with Orla Quirke in four hours. Might want to practice your fuck-off face before Elspeth brings her down."

Harry stared at him, horrified. "I hate you."

Shacklebolt grinned and closed the door behind him.

***

_Saviour of the Wizarding World in shocking custody battle_ was emblazoned across the front page of the Prophet above the fold; Flournoy smirked smugly from an inset photo while a sidebar in smaller print read _Potter to head Wizengamot security team, says Death Eaters deserve fair hearings_.

Harry tossed the paper aside with a curl of his lip. He'd already had an earful from Elspeth about not playing up the bloody party line more. As if it were his fault that Orla bloody fucking Quirke had more interest in his bloody fucking private life—

A knock on his office door made him look up. Hooley, one of the junior members of his security team and the one most flustered around Harry, peered over a stack of file boxes Harry had yet to unpack. Harry raised an eyebrow. "Did you need something?"

"I'm sorry, sir," Hooley said, shifting from foot to foot, "but your wife—I mean, your ex-wife—I mean—"

Harry held up a hand. "I know who you mean, Hooley."

"Er, yes." Hooley coughed. "I mean to say, sir, that she's here." He lowered his voice. "In reception. If you'd care to speak with her, sir? She's been quite certain you've a meeting, but there's nothing in your official diary..."

"Shit." Harry flipped the Prophet over and glanced at the masthead. _28 January, 2023_ "I forgot to ink it in." He grabbed his outer robe and shrugged it on, standing. Brilliant. Wrinkled and his ironing charms were bollocks. Harry sighed. "Tell her I'll be right there—"

"Honestly, Harry," Ginny said from over Hooley's shoulder, and the Auror tensed, eyes widening. "You're never on time for _anything._" She slid through the piles of boxes and glanced over at Hooley. "He was late to our wedding, you realise."

With a frown, Harry buttoned his robe. "That was Ron's fault."

Ginny smiled faintly, quickly, before her mouth twisted back down as she saw the Prophet. "Lovely article."

"Not my fault either." Harry flicked his wand at the paper, sending it flying into the bin. Fucking Flournoy.

"It never is," Ginny said tightly, and Harry sighed.

"Can we not get into this right now?" He cast a glance at Hooley who flushed and disappeared. "I'd rather not have a row here."

Ginny's mouth thinned. "Afraid gossip will fly?"

"Actually," Harry said, "yes. Let's just get this over with, Gin. Civilly, like the adults we are."

"Adults keep their pricks in their pants, Harry," Ginny snapped, and she brushed past him, bristling.

Fucking shit. This was going to be a bloody nightmare.

***

The waiting room for Children and Family Wizengamot Advisory and Support Services was anything but welcoming.

Gleaming black marble floors and walls gave way to crumbling stone and Victorian honeycomb tile deep within the bowels of the Ministry. Level ten had been expanded a decade ago, attaching it to an older, nearly forgotten warren of rooms stretching out beneath the Department of Mysteries. It was cold down here, despite the spurts of warming charms that drifted through the wide hallway, and, even though eight couples were scattered throughout the room waiting for a chance to speak to their reporters, the silence was near-deafening.

Harry paced back and forth, hands behind his back; Ginny sat nearby, flipping through an old, dog-eared copy of Witch Weekly.

"We've been here half an hour," Harry hissed.

Ginny looked up through her fringe. "Well, ask again how long it'll be."

Harry glanced over at the receptionist—a dour-looking boy barely out of Hogwarts. He sighed. "Fuck it."

The boy held up a hand before Harry reached the desk. "Ask again, and I'll put you down at the bottom of the queue."

"You really hate your job, don't you?" Harry crossed his arms and glared at him.

"Sir," the boy said wearily, "everyone here does."

A door opened across the room. "Potter?"

"Oh, thank _God,_" Harry muttered, and he turned only to find Draco bloody Malfoy smirking at him, casefiles in hand.

_Shit._

***

"_You're_ a family reporter." Harry stared across the desk at Malfoy. Ginny sat next to him, obviously trying—and failing—to hide her delight.

Malfoy tossed his files on the desk and sat down. His black frock coat was pristine and buttoned tightly up to his throat. It reminded Harry of Snape. "Everyone has to earn a paycheque somehow, Potter."

"Yeah, well, it doesn't seem like something _you'd_ be interested in." Harry glared at him. He really shouldn't be bloody noticing how the black wool fit across Malfoy's shoulders or the way his blond hair brushed the edge of the collar. _Christ._

"I'm not." Malfoy shrugged. "Not that it's any of your business, but it was a transfer. You're aware of those, as I've heard." His eyes flicked down to a copy of the Prophet on the corner of his desk. Harry flushed.

Ginny dropped her purse next to her chair and leaned forward. "So what exactly is it that we'll do here?"

Malfoy flipped through the file in front of him. "Given that both your solicitors say you've failed to agree to a plan for custody of your youngest two brats, they've filed applications for Residence Orders with the Wizengamot. At the moment, the Wizengamot has issued an Interim Contact Order." He looked up. "Potter, you're now being granted one weekend a month residence rights at Weasley's discretion."

"Great," Harry muttered and slouched in his chair. "Thanks."

"Be grateful you have that," Ginny snapped.

Malfoy rested his elbows on the open file and pressed his thumb to his mouth. "My responsibility is to interview you and your children in order to make an informed recommendation at your final hearing." He smiled thinly. "You should be aware that almost all of the time the Wizengamot follows our suggestions. So it would be in your best interests not to annoy me. _Potter._"

"Brilliant." Harry's jaw tightened. "So I've someone looking at my case who's hated me since school. I'd like to request a new reporter, thanks."

"Considering our caseload and the fact that we're understaffed, that would be an impossibility." Malfoy reached for his quill. "And that's one mark against you, Potter. Unwillingness to work with Wizengamot-assigned family reporter." He scrawled a note in the file. "I'll remember that."

Harry sat up. "What the fuck—"

"Oh, do keep going, Harry," Ginny said with a smile. "Please."

Malfoy raised an eyebrow at her. "I wouldn't automatically assume I'm taking your side either, Weasley."

She frowned at him. Malfoy returned the look coolly.

"Look," Harry said, and he _hated_ himself for having to do this. "I just want my kids part of the year. I don't think that's unreasonable, and I'm not the world's worst father—"

Ginny snorted. Harry glared at her.

"I'm _not_," he insisted. "Sure I've cocked up, but I love my kids and I'd never hurt them. I just want to see them."

Malfoy dropped his quill and clapped, a sardonic smile twisting his thin mouth. "How very noble of you, Potter. But frankly, I don't care."

"Then what's the _point_ of this?" Harry shouted, and then he pinched the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses up with his knuckles. "Sorry. I'm just..."

He trailed off and looked away, staring at a photograph of a pretty blond woman he vaguely recognised, her arms wrapped around a young boy who was the spitting image of Malfoy, down to the sullen twist of his mouth and the pale blond hair hanging in his grey eyes.

The boy looked up at his mother as she made a few quick, odd gestures with her hands; he suddenly smiled, brightening his face, and he repeated the motions, his hands moving almost in a blur before he laughed, looking out of the frame at someone else. Over Malfoy's shoulder hung another photo of just the boy, older now, nearly Albus's age, and leaning over a balcony railing. He turned his head at times, as if listening to something far away. Malfoy's son, Harry presumed. Strange to think of the Ferret with a family.

After a moment, Malfoy leaned back in his chair, swiveling from one side to another. "What neither of you seem to realise," he said quietly, "is that this has nothing to do with either of you. There's not a winner here, and if you think there is, then you were bloody stupid to spawn." He paused and shuddered. "Which, actually, is really something I'd rather not think about, thanks."

Neither Harry nor Ginny spoke. Harry just stared at the boy behind Malfoy's shoulder and the curious way he tilted his head.

Malfoy sighed and picked up his quill again. "I'll be visiting each of your homes to speak with the children. Arrangements can be made to have the two youngest removed from Hogwarts for the weekend. The oldest isn't required to be there unless he wishes to be." He pointed his quill at Ginny. "We'll begin with you Saturday after next. Potter, you can follow the weekend after that. Merlin knows you've probably far more to ready." He frowned. "The fathers usually do."

"What exactly will you be looking for?" Harry gave Malfoy a dubious look. He didn't like the idea of being examined like this.

"If you can't figure that out yourself, you bloody well shouldn't be a father." Malfoy closed the file folder. "Now get out of my office. You're putting me off my lunch and I've arrangements to make with your wife."

Harry shoved his chair back. "Prick," he muttered.

"Duly noted in your file, Potter."

Harry shot two fingers at Malfoy as he slammed the door behind him.

***

"I'm fucking bollocksed is what I am," Harry moaned into a beer at the Leaky. "Are you sure there's no way I can switch to another reporter?"

Hermione crossed her legs and rested her chin on her fist. She was still wearing her Ministry counsel's robe, open over her black dress, having come from a late hearing before the Wizengamot. "Normally, yes, but Malfoy's right. The CFWASS _is_ wretchedly underfunded and understaffed. And there'd be the question of favouritism, after all, given who you are."

"That's what Flournoy said." Harry sighed and drained his beer, motioning for another one just after Tom sent a full glass levitating his way across the crowded pub. Christ, he loved the Leaky. He poked at his shepherd's pie—or at least at what Tom claimed was a shepherd's pie. Harry wasn't quite certain. "What am I going to do?"

"You're going to stop antagonising Malfoy to begin with." Hermione poked at her wilted salad. "But keep a record of anything he does. It might stand you in good stead if you need to appeal—and don't you dare let Ginny know I said that. And tell your solicitor to keep you out of the Prophet for pity's sake. That sort of thing's not going to do you any favours with the Wizengamot. Half of them still think you're likely to become the next Dark Lord."

Harry dragged his fork through the lopsided mound of potatoes. "Don't tempt me."

It earned him a sharp look. "Don't joke, Harry. The last thing you need is for anyone to think you're serious."

"I know, I know." He put his fork down and took a sip of beer. "It's just...Hermione, it's _Malfoy._ You know what a prick he's always been."

Hermione didn't say anything for a moment. "He's not as bad as he used to be."

"Yeah, well," Harry grumbled, wiping his hands on a serviette, "even prats have to grow up a little."

"It's not just that." Hermione bit into a chunk of roasted beetroot and chewed slowly. "He's been through rather a lot in past years."

Harry looked up, curious. "What do you mean?"

She reached for her tea, blowing across the steaming surface. "Well, his wife died what was it? Three years back, I think? It must have been. Her sister Daphne's our contact in the Minister's office, and she was pregnant at the time. Max is almost three now, so that'd be about right."

"What happened?" Harry twisted his beer between his hands. The pretty, smiling woman in the picture frame flashed through his mind. Greengrass. That was right. Asteria Greengrass. She'd been a couple of years behind them in school. Harry'd barely paid attention to her, though he thought he'd heard Ginny mention her name once or twice over the years.

Hermione shrugged. "I don't know much. Some sort of accident, I think. Charms, maybe? She did some sort of research, and whatever she was working on didn't quite go as expected. Quite a shock, really. It left Malfoy rather shaken up from what Daphne said."

"Yeah. I reckon." Harry rubbed his thumb up the side of his glass. He felt a surge of something—pity, sympathy, maybe—for Malfoy. He might be an enormous twat but no one deserved to go through that. "He must have really loved her."

"I suppose he did. And then there's his son too. Takes a lot of effort with him from what I understand." Hermione pushed her plate away. "I can't imagine how difficult that has to be."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Slow? Or a Squib?"

Hermione shook her head and took a sip of her tea. "No, he's at Hogwarts. High marks in most of his classes, Rose says. She's often competing with him—I'm surprised Albus hasn't mentioned him."

"Al doesn't talk about school." Harry sighed. "Ever."

"It has to be difficult for him, Harry." Hermione set her cup down in the saucer. "For all three of them in different ways. They've a father everyone knows of, a last name everyone recognises. You know how hard it was for you in school—just think of what they're going through. All the expectations on them."

The clatter of dishes and rumble of conversation around them filled the silence. Harry rubbed his scar; he could barely feel the raised ridge now. "Yeah. You might have a point." At Hermione's rolled eyes, he smiled faintly. "Doesn't mean I don't worry."

"Well, you'd be a shitty father if you didn't," she said tartly.

Harry took a bite of potato and carrot and washed it down with a swallow of beer. "So. Malfoy's kid? What's wrong with him?"

"He's deaf." Hermione stole a bit of his bread and popped it in her mouth. "Some sort of virus when he was younger, I think, and St Mungo's managed to save his magic, but not his hearing. Rose says he doesn't talk much to the other children. Stays to himself a bit."

"Really? His father must hate that. Malfoy always did want to be the center of attention."

"Scorpius isn't Draco, Harry," Hermione said softly and the look she gave him was reproachful. "Maybe he'd rather be left alone. It can't be easy for him."

Harry thought back to the boy in Draco's office, his fingers flying. He must have been talking, Harry realised, and he wondered what he'd said. "Yeah."

"So give Malfoy a bit of slack." Hermione tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and reached for her fork again. "He might deserve it a little."

"Look, if it'll get me my kids," Harry said bluntly, "I'll kiss his bloody arse."

Hermione snorted. "Isn't that what got you into this mess to begin with?" She gave him a sideways smile.

Harry grinned and finished his beer.

***

Harry'd just started his weekly senior staff briefing when Paolino, his team's administrative coordinator, stuck her head in the room.

"Sorry to interrupt, sir," she said, "but the Head's Flooed down to say you need to—and beg pardon, but he said to quote him directly—you need to get your damned arse up to his office immediately." Her eyebrows drew together. "There's a GBH Code Alpha situation with the Wizengamot."

"Shit." Harry pushed his chair back. "Have any of the teams reported in this hour?"

Paolino nodded her head, black curls bouncing against her cheeks. "All but Lazenby's." She bit her lip. "I was just getting ready to try her again—"

"Do it. Let me know when you get hold of her." Harry tossed his notepad at Yorke, his second in command. "Finish up here, then you, Davies and Maheshiwari wait in my office."

Yorke nodded and took Harry's seat at the head of the table, his face solemn.

Harry ran down the corridor towards the lift, feet slapping against the black marble tile. Grievous Bodily Harm could only mean one thing, particularly when combined with an alpha code. Someone was dead—or close to it—and it wasn't a bloody accident.

_Shit._

He took a corner sharply, too sharply he realised as he slipped and lurched forward, slamming straight into a black wool frock coat. Papers went flying, and Harry skidded across the slick floor, knocking his shoulder against the wall. He winced. "Shit."

"Vulgar, but nevertheless accurate." Malfoy glared at him as he pushed his hair back out of his eyes. He reached for a file folder that Harry had landed on. "Get up, you damned oaf."

Harry shifted and Malfoy jerked the folder out from under his hip. "Sorry. I was in a rush—"

"Your ability to state the obvious is astounding, Potter." Malfoy pushed himself to his feet, rubbing at his back. "Merlin, that bloody hurt."

"Getting old, Malfoy?" Harry jumped up and started to gather the scattered papers. He was certain he saw a page with Ginny's name on it.

Malfoy grabbed them from his hand, ignoring him. "Those are _confidential_, you dolt."

Harry stared at him. "Christ. I'm just trying to help—"

"Well, you can stop." Malfoy Summoned the remainder of the papers and cast a Sorting Charm. They flew around his head in a triplicate swirl of colours before settling in their proper folders; the folders stacked themselves neatly, then hovered next to Malfoy, waiting.

"Sorry." Harry knew he didn't sound particularly so, and he damn well didn't care. If the arse couldn't even accept a bit of help...

Malfoy hesitated and then, his mouth turning down at the corners, muttered, "Thank you." At Harry's raised eyebrows, Malfoy lifted his chin defiantly and turned on his heel. "Don't think that gets you anywhere though."

He walked away, back stiff, folders fluttering behind his set shoulders.

Really bloody annoying, Malfoy was.

Harry shook his head and took off down the corridor again.

***

Ron and Thalia Everret, the head of the Office of Information, were in Shacklebolt's office already. They looked up when Harry ran in, out of breath, and their grim expressions made his stomach clench.

"What's happened?" he asked, taking the empty seat next to Ron.

Shacklebolt pushed a paper across the desk. "Fifteen minutes ago the duty Auror recorded this transmission from Horatio Walkenhorst's front garden. I believe you'll recognise the division call number. And before you ask, yes, we've already pulled Walkenhorst's personnel files for the investigation."

Harry scanned the text. "Lazenby's team." He tensed in his seat; he already knew the answer to his next question. He wouldn't be here otherwise. "Did any of them live?"

"One," Ron said, and for the first time in weeks he looked at Harry sympathetically. It wasn't ever easy for any of them to lose Aurors under their command. "Piers and Wickford were the first to respond. They'd been in Heathrow consulting with the Muggles; it didn't take them long to get to Twickenham." He looked down at his notes. "A bloke named Hooley. He's in transit to St Mungo's."

"I'll want to speak with him." Harry felt oddly numb. Three of his Aurors dead; a Member of the Wizengamot murdered. This couldn't be happening. "Death Eaters?"

Ron shook his head. "Not as far as we can tell. No Morsmordre, and according to Wickford, Hooley says they were masked but it definitely wasn't your standard Death Eater garb, and you know how that lot hates to find new tailors."

"We think it might be one of the groups that left earlier threats." Thalia crossed her legs, twisting a quill nervously through her fingers. "Have you run the reports yet on those?"

Harry set the paper back down on Shacklebolt's desk. "Paolino has them. We're finishing up the cross-referencing with our database and then I wanted to run it through HOLMES at the Yard, just to eliminate any Muggle connections. We've been finding a few possible ties to Dublin and Moscow."

"Dolohovs and Macnairs?" Ron asked, and Harry nodded. "Shit."

"Keep sorting through the reports," Shacklebolt said. "Yard, Interpol, Irish and Russian Ministries. Whomever you need to contact. Weasley, you'll need to send a few more teams out in the field to make some inquiries. Discreetly."

With a frown, Ron turned to Harry. "Any use shaking up Dung? See if there are any rumors flying about down at the docks?"

"Couldn't hurt."

Ron touched a pip on his robe. "Rosenthal," he barked. "Bring in Mundungus Fletcher."

There was a sharp burst of static before Rosenthal's voice echoed through the room. "What charges, sir?"

"Jesus." Ron scowled. "What's the last thing in his file?"

Another static buzz, and then Rosenthal replied, "Caught him hawking illegal seed pods again a fortnight ago, sir."

Ron raised his eyebrow at Shacklebolt who nodded in return. Ron tapped the pip again. "That'll work. Put him in an overflow holding cell on level ten. I'll handle his interrogation myself." At Rosenthal's _Yes, sir, right away_, Ron looked over at Harry. "Good enough?"

It was almost as if nothing had happened between the two of them. They'd always been good together in a crisis. Harry smiled at him. "Yeah."

Ron looked away and the moment was broken.

Thalia set her quill on her notepad. "The Minister will let the Prime Minister know we may be requiring Muggle assistance, but we're going to need something to keep the Prophet at bay."

"And the WWN." Harry swore under his breath. "Look, if we mention Death Eaters at all, we'll start a bloody riot—"

Ron nodded. "No sense in that. Can we keep it down as an accident?"

"Not likely." Thalia sighed. "We'll have to give them something, and the hearings start in four days. The last thing the Ministry wants is to look dodgy right now."

Harry shifted in his chair, sober. "Then we tell them the truth. We just twist it. Walkenhorst was murdered and we've individuals of interest we're following. They don't need to know anything else."

"It could work," Shacklebolt said, leaning back, his hands clasped over his chest.

Thalia nodded. "If we spin it, yes." She drummed her fingers thoughtfully against her chair arm. "I've a few favours to call in with the Prophet's editor. This might be a chance to make use of one or two."

Shacklebolt sat forward with a thump. "We've a plan."

"On it right now," Harry said, and he was out of his chair, headed for the door.

***

The note was on his desk the next morning with the other inter-office memos.

Malfoy's handwriting was neatly spiky, every stroke precise and controlled. It was entirely different from the Malfoy Harry remembered. He supposed twenty-five years could do that, though. He certainly wasn't the same person he'd been at eighteen.

It was direct and to the point. _Three o'clock, Saturday next. I expect your home to be available for my perusal and your children to be present for interview._

Not even a signature, just a _DM_ printed neatly at the bottom.

Harry curled his lip. Wonderful. Bloody fucking wonderful. This was _just_ what he needed right now.

He tossed the note aside and reached for his cloak. He needed a cigarette and a walk.

Arrogant shit.

_Christ._

***

The first day of hearings was a nightmare.

Crowds filled the Ministry Atrium before noon; Ministry employees were caught in the throng, unable to get to the lifts to make it to their offices until Aurors transfigured a temporary walkway high above the Atrium floor. Harry'd never hated the postwar ban against Apparation inside the Ministry more than he did at the moment.

It was half two when he finally had a chance to slip into the Wizengamot chambers for the first time, dropping onto the bench next to Hooley who, fresh from St Mungo's and still not quite at the top of his game, had been given a seated position. Harry nudged Hooley's knee; the boy grinned over at him.

"Everything all right?" Harry murmured, and Hooley nodded.

"Quiet so far," he said, but his wand was in his hand, Harry noticed. "Mostly just statements by the Ministry's barristers, but the defence is about to get its turn."

Harry glanced over at the Ministry's table; he could see Hermione's curls bent over a thick sheaf of papers. One of her fellow barristers leaned towards her, whispering in her ear, and she nodded. Alecto Carrow was first on the docket. Between the memory of her staff days at Hogwarts and the fact that she was already mad as the proverbial bloody hatter, Harry couldn't imagine she'd be granted parole of any form. It'd been planned that way, he knew. The easiest cases first, then the hard ones, then finish off with another round of easy hearings and justice would be served.

Perhaps.

Harry didn't entirely have a great deal of confidence in the Wizengamot given his own experiences with it. In his opinion, the whole lot of them were too damned bloody influenced by public opinion, and given that most of the public were mindless gits of the highest degree...

Orla Quirke nodded at him from several benches over. Harry ignored her pointedly. That'd cost him, he was sure, but it was highly satisfying.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the Wizengamot," Carrow's barrister began, and Harry tuned him out. He'd been to enough hearings over the years to know that nothing of any interest happened in the first day or two other than grandstanding by each side.

The door behind him opened and he and Hooley both looked back. Thalia looked around the edge of the door, then motioned for him. Quirke watched them, her eyebrows raised in interest.

Harry stepped outside, the barrister's demands for _justice, sirs and madams, and mercy as well_ cutting off sharply as the door closed with a soft thump. "What is it?"

Thalia handed him a single sheet of paper that had been folded over several times. "The Prophet received this yesterday afternoon and Barnabas brought it over to me after lunch today. I thought you might find it interesting."

"Barnabas?" Harry unfolded the parchment, curious.

"The Prophet editor-in-chief. We've mutual friends."

Harry stared down at the note. He traced a fingertip lightly over a small blob of copper sealing wax at the bottom. Impressed into the greasy surface was a rough image of two men riding a horse, each carrying a shield. "Knights?" he asked.

"That's what they appear to be."

"Right." Harry read through the rambling diatribe against the Ministry and the Wizengamot, condemning them for even considering the freedom of such enemies of the populace. It made his head throb. "Who the hell are the Order of Hythlodaeus?"

"I was hoping you could tell me," Thalia said. "They're claiming responsibility for Walkenhorst's death."

"They could be mad." Harry folded the paper. "Can I keep this?"

She nodded. "They know details that weren't published. Such as the nature of the curses used."

"Doesn't mean anything." Harry started down the hall; he glanced back at her. "I'll let you know what we find out."

He turned the corner just as Quirke walked out of the hearing, buttonholing Thalia. Harry breathed a sigh of relief.

***

Paolino sorted through the stack of folders. "It's not much on them, sir. Just a note they sent back early November ranting about Syphograntii and Traniborii and a lot more rot that we couldn't ever figure out. We put them in the prank file." She pulled a thin folder out and handed it to Harry.

He skimmed the original. The handwriting was even and regular without any odd quirks. A totally unremarkable letter other than the bizarre tangents regarding the necessity of changing the direction of the state and chains of gold holding back the slavish people. Not that the MLE didn't get rot like this a few times a year from one nutter or another. "No magical trace matter?"

"None that forensics could find." Paolino shrugged. "I reckon they didn't look it over too carefully at the time, though. You know how swamped they are."

Harry frowned down at the scrap of paper. "Have them take another pass at it."

"It'll take a while."

"We can wait." Harry handed the folder back to her. "Thanks, Annie."

Paolino blushed and hurried off.

Harry reached for the bottle of whiskey he kept tucked in the bottom drawer of his desk and poured two fingers.

Christ, this week was going to be a bitch.

***

Harry turned in his lounge, eyeing it critically.

His whole flat was spotless, thanks to a bit of help from Hermione's knack with household charms. He had furniture now, a wide couch and a coffee table and another leather chair to match the one he'd already purchased. An entire wall was filled with bookcases; a new rug stretched across the pitted wooden floor. The kitchen had a table and Harry'd expanded the two bedrooms to three so Lils wouldn't have to share with her brothers when she came over. He didn't want to put up with the arguments on that score; it'd been easier to just split the larger bedroom in half and add an extra door to the hallway.

Thank God for construction spells.

It wasn't perfect, and he knew it wasn't anything compared to the house in Islington with its curved cherry staircase and five bedrooms and back garden.

His garden consisted of a small square landing on the fire escape off the kitchen window.

But the flat was tidy and cosy, and he'd pots and pans to cook with—not that he could do much besides a fry-up or pancakes or maybe a curry if he had a frozen mix from Tesco. Still, it was something, and it was bloody better than sitting around in a pile of empty Boddington cans and crisp bags.

Maybe.

He sighed. It was the best he could do, and if Malfoy was going to be a shit about it then he'd just be a shit.

Nothing surprising about that.

Godric barked his agreement.

***

McGonagall was waiting on the steps leading to the Entrance Hall when Harry arrived at Hogwarts, her cheeks pink with cold and her scarf blowing in the brisk winter wind. Her hair was nearly white now and wrinkles creased her face, but her eyes were still bright and she still stood arrow-straight.

"You're late, Harry," McGonagall said, arms crossed over her chest, but she smiled warmly at him.

He took the steps two at a time and leaned in to hug his former Head of House. "Sorry, ma'am." He pulled back. "Took a bit longer to slip out of today's hearing than I expected."

"Have they reached a consensus on Alecto yet?" McGonagall settled her hat more firmly on her head as the wind shifted, blowing drifts of snow across the steps.

Harry shivered. "Close to it, I expect. No one truly thinks they'll release her, though her defence is pressing for her to be moved from Azkaban to Mungo's locked ward."

"Ridiculous." McGonagall held open the heavy door. "They've not the adequate resources for securing her."

"That's what Shacklebolt's arguing." The hall was warm and bright and filled with students on their way to supper. They all looked at him curiously, whispers twisting through the groups of three and four. Harry nodded at one gaggle of girls; they flushed and giggled. "He's to speak on Monday morning. But I think it's an option that bears some considering."

McGonagall led him up the main staircase. "Whatever for? The crimes she committed against students at this school—" The Headmistress broke off, her voice tight.

"I know." Harry turned a corner behind her. "But she's completely out of her head now and Azkaban's not helping. Her barristers are right; the guards have no idea how to handle her and half the time she's lying about in her own..." He caught himself. "Er. Feces. And such." He shook his head. "I just don't see how that's a proper punishment."

"So you disagree with your supervisor?" McGonagall shot him a sharp look over the rims of her glasses.

Harry ran a hand through his hair. "I reckon on some things."

She smiled at him. "Good. It keeps the Ministry on its toes."

"Dad!" Lily sat cross-legged on the floor next to the gargoyle guarding the Headmistress' office. She leaned against two bags. "You're late."

McGonagall snorted behind him and Harry grinned. "I am. Sorry, love. Where are your brothers?"

Lily shrugged. "James didn't want to come. Al's down there somewhere." She waved her hand vaguely down the hall. She lowered her voice. "With a _boy._"

Harry raised his eyebrow.

"I'm here." Albus jumped out of a niche carved in the wall, and another boy followed him, all arms and legs and pale blond hair and small oval spectacles that glinted in the torchlight. Albus looked back at him and his hands moved as he spoke. "I'll see you Monday."

The boy nodded silently, and when he brushed past Harry without a word, Harry blinked. Pointed chin, shadowed grey eyes.

"Scorpius," McGongall said pleasantly but the boy ignored her, ambling down the hall, his hands shoved in his robe pockets.

Harry looked at McGonagall; she shook her head at him and instead gave the gargoyle her password. The staircase to her office swung open and the children grabbed their bags and started up the steps. Harry hung back for a moment.

"Malfoy's kid?" he asked incredulously. "When did this—"

"Towards the end of last term," McGongall said. "Do you speak to your children, Harry?"

Harry flushed. "Al doesn't like to talk about school."

McGonagall eyed him for a long moment. "And you prefer not to push him."

"Doesn't seem to be any point," Harry snapped. He trailed his hand along the rough stone of the stairwell as he climbed the steps. "It just makes him keep things to himself even more."

McGonagall frowned and shook her head. "Harry, he's almost fifteen. Perhaps you should try to remember how recalcitrant you were at that age."

Harry didn't answer and she pushed her office door open.

Lily was looking around, curiously; Albus was already perched on the arm of a chair in front of the Headmasters' portraits, whispering to Snape. He broke off when his father walked in, and Snape frowned at Harry. "Potter," he said.

"Professor Snape." Harry smiled. "It's been a while."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Has it. Your son informs me that you and Miss Weasley are divorcing."

"Severus," McGonagall said sharply and he gave her a cool stare.

"We are," Harry said. "Not that it's any of your business."

Snape's lips thinned. "Perhaps." He looked down at Albus and his eyebrows drew together. "And perhaps someone ought to make it their damned business."

McGonagall reached for an enamel box on the hearth and handed it to Harry. "Ignore him. He's a wretchedly cranky bastard lately."

With a snort, Snape shifted into another portrait frame, pushing past a sleeping Armando Dippet. "You try being trapped in canvas for twenty years, you bloody old heifer."

The Headmistress' eyes narrowed, and Harry dug into the Floo powder hastily. "We should go," he said, motioning for Albus and Lily. He'd prefer not to be around when McGonagall's temper was unleashed.

He tossed the powder on the fire; it blazed a bright green. "Twenty A, Hawley Crescent, Camden Town," he said clearly, and he pulled Lily and Albus into the wide hearth. The last thing he heard was McGonagall's _Really, Severus, must you—_ and his responding _Someone needs to take interest in the brat, Minerva, before the damned boy drives himself mad—_

Harry flinched and held tight to his children.

***

They'd ordered out from Wagamama as a treat, Harry'd said, though it was only because he didn't feel like making the attempt to cook, and they'd curled up in the lounge to watch a film or two.

Lily'd fallen asleep on the couch with Godric at her feet; Harry covered her with a blanket her grandmother had knitted years back and brushed her hair out of her face. She looked so young, and he sighed and wondered for the thousandth time if he was bollocksing up for all of them.

"Dad?" Albus stood in the kitchen doorway, a half-empty bowl of yasai yaki soba in his hands. "What should I do with this?"

Godric whined softly and licked the back of Harry's hand before settling again into his corner of the couch.

"Bin it," Harry said and he followed Albus back into the kitchen. Boxes and bowls were scattered across the countertop. With a flick of his wand, Harry sent them tumbling into the rubbish bin. He grinned at his son. "Easier."

Albus made a face at him. "Yeah, well, I still have to do it the hard way." He washed his hands in the sink as Harry grabbed a bottle of beer from the cabinet.

Harry hopped up on the counter and took a drink before handing the bottle to his son. "So, you've gotten friendly with Scorpius Malfoy?"

With a heavy sigh Albus passed the bottle back. "I've been waiting for you to ask that."

"Must have wanted me to." Harry twisted the beer between his hands. "You had him there when I showed up."

Albus didn't say anything for a moment, then he pushed himself up on the counter opposite his father. His loose jeans twisted at his hips; his white t-shirt rode up. "Yeah," he said finally. "I guess."

Harry took another drink and waited.

"I like him," Albus said. "I didn't want to tell you because Mum's said you and his dad never got on in school—"

"Your _Mum_ knows about this?" Harry set his beer down. "Jesus, Al—"

Albus frowned and ducked his head. "She just knows Professor Flitwick asked me to tutor Scorpius last term in Charms and she said I'd best not mention it to you or Uncle Ron. And Scorpius' dad wasn't exactly happy about it either when he heard I was tutoring him—he tried to make Flitwick assign someone else—so we decided we'd just keep it quiet." He looked up defiantly. "Anyway, it's nobody's business whom I'm friends with."

"I'm surprised you keep your brother and sister from knowing," Harry said dryly.

His son shrugged. "They're in Gryffindor. They don't take much notice of me at school if I don't want them to."

"Al."

"Don't start, Dad." Albus pushed his glasses up. "I know they love me and all that rubbish, but, let's face it, I'm odd. James would rather pretend he doesn't have a swotty little brother to pull down his popularity, and Lils..." He trailed off. "She's her own friends. And I'd rather be on my own. It's hard enough being a Potter, you know."

Harry clasped his hands between his knees. "I know."

"It's not your fault," Albus said quietly. "It's just the way it is. That's what Professor Snape says, anyway."

"Does he?"

Albus nodded. "He talks to us both, me and Scorpius. He's the one who taught me how to speak to him properly."

"What do you mean?"

"He can't hear—Scorpius, that is. So he talks with his hands." Albus moved his fingers quickly. "Like that. I mean, he can speak if he wants, except he's really loud when he does, and he reads lips bloody well. But he'd rather use his hands. Says it's not as embarrassing." Albus smiled faintly. "He doesn't like people staring at him. I reckon I understand that." He hesitated and his hands fell into his lap.

Harry ran his thumb over the lip of the bottle. "Do you." He couldn't imagine his son being mates with a Malfoy. It was bloody _impossible._

"Yeah." Albus sighed. "He's a bit of a freak too. His mum died a few years ago, and he hates the way people treat him now. Like he's bloody fragile or something. So he just doesn't talk to them. He says they're not worth his time, and I don't blame him." He looked sideways at Harry. "Are you angry?"

"No," Harry said after a moment. "I wish you'd told me earlier, but no."

The lights from the street outside glowed through the white curtains on the windows, brightening as a passing bus rumbled down Hawley Crescent, headed for the Camden Town tube. Harry slid off the counter and opened the cabinet overhead. "Think I might have some Jaffa Cakes around, if you'd like."

"That'd be brill," Albus said softly, and he caught the box of McVitie's that Harry tossed at him.

Harry set two beers on the kitchen table and sat down. He looked up as Albus joined him. "So," Harry said, pushing one of the beers across the table, "how about you tell me about Scorpius?"

Albus gave him a hesitant look. He twisted the bottle between his fingers. "Really?"

"Really," Harry said, and he smiled as his son's face lit up.

It'd been a long time since he'd seen that.

***

Albus straightened the framed cover of _Abbey Road_ next to the Floo for the fifth time.

"It's fine," Harry said. "I promise."

They'd spent the morning in Diagon Alley, buying proper bed linens and extra towels at Jacquard &amp; Damask, then popping into Flourish &amp; Blotts for Albus to pick a few favourite books to keep on his bookcase and Lily to buy several posters of the Mountweazels, which were now adorning her bedroom walls. Harry's amused observation that they didn't look all that different from the Weird Sisters of his day had earned him rolled eyes and a condescending _Retro is wicked, Dad_ from his daughter.

Now the flat actually looked lived-in for the first time since Harry'd arrived.

Lily set an arrangement of white roses and cala lilies on the side table, next to the Screechsnap that Neville had Flooed over just after breakfast as well-wishes. He'd done the same for Ginny the weekend before, according to Albus, and Harry couldn't help but be grateful for another friend who'd managed not to tell him to fuck off entirely. Lily wrapped her arm around Harry's waist. "It'll be fine, Dad. He wasn't so bad last week; he just asked us about school and how things were with us and Mum and who took out the rubbish and that sort of thing."

"Did he now?" Harry ruffled her hair.

Albus looked up from scratching behind Godric's ears. The beagle rolled over with a muffled sigh. "It really wasn't anything to be worried about. Even Mum said it went better than she'd thought."

The Floo rattled, and there was just a quick moment for Harry to draw a nervous breath before Malfoy stepped into the lounge, barely a hair out of place. Really, Harry _hated_ him.

"Potter," Malfoy said, and he looked around him. "My, how the mighty have fallen."

Harry tensed. "It's small, but it's home."

"I'll be the judge of that." Malfoy stepped over a sprawled Godric; the dog raised his head and snuffled at Malfoy's feet. Harry waited for the growl, but instead Godric settled back with a lazy grunt and a lap of his tongue in the general direction of Malfoy's boot.

"Traitor," Harry muttered at him as he followed Malfoy down the hall.

***

Harry'd made a rather impressive sculpture out of a whisk, the salt and pepper grinders and a spatula while waiting in the kitchen for Malfoy to finish interrogating his children. He topped it off with a paper serviette, unfolded and tucked around the spatula neck to make a cape, then leaned back and studied it. "Practically ready for the Tate Modern, what say, Godric?"

"I'd say you need a few more serviettes."

The grinders went flying; Harry grabbed at them wildly and set them aside, his face burning. "Malfoy." He turned on his stool and wiped his palms on his jeans. "Done already?"

"Yes." Malfoy stepped into the kitchen, a faint smirk twisting his mouth. Even on a Saturday he was impeccably dressed in a long, fitted black wool coat, the barest edge of a white shirt peeking out at collar and cuffs. It really shouldn't look so damn good on him.

Harry felt his cheeks warm again. "Everything in order, then?" He peered around Malfoy, expecting his children.

Malfoy just raised an eyebrow and Harry shifted on his chair, nervous. "They're still in their rooms." Malfoy set his notepad and quill on the counter. "Aren't you going to offer me anything?"

"Offer you..." Harry blinked at him. What the hell was he on about? Malfoy looked pointedly at the teakettle. "Oh!" Harry coughed and jumped up. "Care for some tea? Or I've beer if you'd rather—"

"Tea." Malfoy curled his lip. "I'm all too aware of what sort of shite Gryffindors consider to be a proper lager."

Harry set the kettle on and reached for the PG Tips. How bloody bizarre to be sharing the social niceties with Malfoy of all people. He shuddered, then wondered if Ginny'd done the same. He sighed. She'd probably had tea waiting for him. With homemade bloody biscuits. Damn it.

He could hear Malfoy moving about behind him as he poured up the tea and arranged a few leftover Jaffa Cakes and a handful of Ginger Nuts on a plate. Pitiful, he knew, but it was the best he could do. He looked over his shoulder. Malfoy was on one knee, scratching behind Godric's ear. Harry rolled his eyes as the dog blissfully leaned into the touch, his back paw bouncing against the floor. "Milk, sugar, whisky?"

Malfoy hesitated. "Yes," he said after a moment, standing, "but light on the whisky."

Harry levitated the tea and biscuits to the table; Malfoy eyed the Ginger Nuts dubiously. Harry reached for one and crunched into it. "It's not going to kill you," he said through a mouthful of biscuit.

"So you say." Malfoy sipped his tea and made a slight face. "Definitely not Darjeeling."

"PG Tips," Harry said. "Special Blend and the whisky's Macallan, so stop your whinging."

Malfoy snorted. "Perhaps I should have taken more whisky then."

"Perhaps." Harry lifted his mug. "So. What now?"

"I'm fairly certain I've determined that your youngest two children don't entirely hate you." Malfoy took another sip of tea. "Your oldest on the other hand..."

Harry broke off half a Ginger Nut and tossed it to Godric. He caught it eagerly and plopped down again, crumbling the biscuit on the floor. "James isn't happy with me, no."

"An understatement." Malfoy took a Jaffa Cake, examining it suspiciously before taking a bite. "He was quite vocal on that score."

With a sigh, Harry set his mug down. "I suppose he told you about the..." He broke off and stared down at his tea.

"The men," Malfoy said calmly, and Harry looked up, surprised.

"Yeah."

Malfoy met his gaze evenly. "It was mentioned."

"I suppose you'll hold that against me." Harry's mouth tightened; the biscuit in his hand snapped, scattering crumbs across the table. Harry brushed them off, banishing them wordlessly.

There was a long silence, then Malfoy shifted, the chair creaking beneath him. "Believe me," he muttered, "I wish I could."

Harry blinked. "You're not allowed to?"

"I could take it into consideration if I wished." Malfoy twisted his mug in his hands.

"You don't wish then," Harry said slowly.

Malfoy lifted his mug and looked at him over the rim. "No."

"Why?" It made no sense. Malfoy hated him, Harry knew that. There was no reason for him not to use anything he could against him.

"Frankly, Potter," Malfoy said sharply, and his cheeks pinked, "the fact of the matter is that I could truly care less who the bloody hell you take to your bed. Male, female, Aberforth Dumbledore's bloody goat. I've no interest."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "You're going to let a perfect chance to take a dig at me go by?"

"Do you _really_ want me to?" Malfoy snapped. "Because I could most definitely take it into account if you're that desperate for me to judge you for being a poof."

Harry gritted his teeth. "I'm _not_ a poof."

"Oh, really." Malfoy reached for his mug, his jaw set. "You must not have taken it up the arse then. Because that's what blokes who've done the fucking like to claim. You're still a man as long as you've not a prick inside you?"

Harry stared at him, realisation dawning. "You've shagged a bloke before." He leaned back in his chair. "You were married!"

"So were you." Malfoy's face was red; he looked away. "And _I_ never cheated on my wife, thank you very damned much. I was single for years before we married."

"You're gay?" Harry dropped another biscuit down to Godric. His mind was racing. Malfoy. Gay. Christ. "Is that why you only have one kid?"

Malfoy frowned at him. "_My son_ is none of your bloody business. And what the hell does being happy have to do with anything?"

"Muggle term, sorry." Harry shook his head and gestured vaguely, nearly knocking his mug over. "Homosexual. Poof. You know."

"Oh, for Christ's sake." Malfoy's cheeks flamed again. "We are _not_ having this conversation."

"But—"

Malfoy cut him off. "I said _no._" The kitchen was silent for a moment, then Malfoy reached for his quill, his hand shaking slightly. "Let's just finish this so I can leave and then spend the next six weeks of my life talking to other idiot Gryffindors in order to determine which one of you bloody fools is better equipped to raise your brats, God only help them."

Harry just watched him.

There were other ways to get to the bottom of this.

***

Harry buttonholed Albus Sunday afternoon as he was packing up his satchel again. His son had nicked his _Hey, Jude_ record and was playing it in his room, volume cranked up until the windows were rattling in their panes.

"Did you know," Albus asked, "that Paul wrote this song for John's son when his parents were getting divorced?"

"I'd heard," Harry said, suddenly feeling grateful for the muffling charms he'd cast in the flat's wards. At least his neighbours wouldn't be complaining.

Albus stared down into his satchel. "I thought it was fitting, all things considered." He looked up at his father. "No, I don't want to talk about it."

"All right. We won't." Harry leaned against the doorjamb. "So, does Scorpius talk any about his mum and dad?"

Albus rolled up his pyjama bottoms and tucked them next to his jeans. "Sometimes. Why?"

"Just curious." Harry shrugged. "Were they happy?"

His son gave him a long, hard look. "Dad, are you trying to stir up shit with his dad? 'Cause I'm not a goss."

"No." Harry sat down on Albus' bed. "And I know you're not. I reckon I'm just trying to figure Malfoy out a bit."

Albus folded a jumper. "They were happy, yeah. Scorpius says his dad's still sad about his mum dying, but neither of them talk about it much." He looked at Harry through his fringe. "I think Scorpius wants to, though. He's just afraid of hurting his dad." He sat down on the edge of the bed. "He says his dad told him once that his mum was the love of his life. Which means something, I guess. According to Scorpius his dad bagged off with a lot of girls for a while—" He broke off at Harry's frown. "Well, he did."

"Girls?" Harry asked.

Albus shrugged. "I reckon. Until he met Scorpius' mum. Why?"

Harry stood up. "No reason." He looked around the room. It was sparse and bare other than the bookcase with one shelf filled and a worn Tottenham poster on the door that Albus had brought from his dormitory. "You need more stuff in here."

"Yeah." Albus shoved a pair of jeans in his bag. "That's what Mr Malfoy said."

"Did he?" Harry gave him a sharp look and Albus rolled his eyes.

"Don't worry, Dad." He fastened his satchel. "He didn't write it down; he was just trying to make small talk." Albus made a face. "Which he's almost as bad at as you."

Harry snorted. "Thanks."

"Anytime." Albus grinned at him and hefted the satchel. "So, you think I might get a lunascope to keep here?"

"We'll see." Harry draped his arm over Albus' shoulder. "You'd rather that than a broom?"

Albus wrinkled his nose and switched off the turntable. The sudden silence in the room was disconcerting. "I've two already, and _no_ lunascope."

"_How_ are you my son?" Harry asked and he pushed Albus out the bedroom door.

***

The Ministry dining hall was oddly crowded for a Monday. Harry supposed no one really wanted to fight through the crowds that still seemed to gather every day in the Atrium, waiting for word from the latest hearing. Alecto Carrow had been sent back to Azkaban, and the Wizengamot was now deep in the thick of Rabastan Lestrange's interrogation. The only time Harry'd seen Hermione for the past week had been in the hearing chambers, and even then she'd been frantically sifting through a stack of testimony.

He hesitated, looking around for an empty table. A seat or two was open at a table filled with Aurors, but Ron was sitting in the middle. Harry sighed. They'd gone back to a frosty silence lately in briefings; it was beginning to annoy Shacklebolt already.

Half of the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee brushed past him, laughing on their way back to work, and Harry caught sight of nearly empty table in the back corner, too far back to be noticed, which was, after all, the major reason half the Ministry bothered to wander down for lunch in the first place.

Malfoy sat at the table, his head bent over a book, ignoring the clatter and rumble around him.

Harry pulled out a chair before he thought. "Hey."

Malfoy's head jerked up and he blinked from behind a pair of wire-rimmed reading spectacles. For a moment he looked exactly like his son, and then he whipped the glasses off and tucked them in his pocket. Harry hid a smile; Malfoy glared at him. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Eating lunch," Harry said and he shook his serviette out and tucked it in his lap. "Chicken vindaloo, I think, today." With a sharp crack a plate appeared in front of him filled with jasmine rice and a small bowl of potatoes and chicken floating in a thick, fragrant sauce. "And water." A glass twisted up from the white tablecloth, condensation dewing the outside.

"You're going to regret that later." Malfoy closed his book. Harry tried to see the title; Malfoy set his elbow over it.

Harry shrugged and bit into a potato. "Probably."

Malfoy pressed his mouth into a thin line. "Is there something you wished to discuss?"

"No." Harry shook his head. "Just thought I'd share your table for lunch."

"In that case..." Malfoy stood up; the empty plate and crossed silverware in front of him disappeared.

Harry took a swallow of water. The fucking vindaloo _burned._ "Where are you going?"

"Are you mad?" Malfoy gave him an incredulous look. He leaned over the table and dropped his voice. "As much as I may despise my job, Potter, it puts a roof over my head and my son's and I have entirely no intention of jeopardising it or what little reputation remains to me by entertaining you as you eat."

"Look, you shit, I'm just trying to be nice—"

"I _won't_ be seen as partial to you, Potter," Malfoy snapped. "Particularly since your soon-to-be-ex-brother-in-law is watching our entire exchange."

Harry glanced over at Ron; he met Harry's look with a stony stare. "Oh."

Malfoy rolled his eyes and wiped his hands on his serviette before dropping it on the tablecloth. It vanished with a pop. "You truly are an utterly feckless idiot." He picked up his book and tucked it beneath his arm.

"Jesus Christ," Harry started, but Malfoy had already turned on his heel and walked away.

Even after all these years, Harry thought, dragging his fork through the rice, Malfoy was still a giant prick.

Fucking sod.

Although Harry supposed he _did_ have a point.

Damn it.

***

"Go away," the ancient doorknob said when Harry knocked on Malfoy's office door.

Harry knocked again. "I know he's in there."

The doorknob harrumphed. "You young whippersnappers. No respect for privacy these days..."

"Malfoy," Harry called out. "Look, I know you've no meetings scheduled this afternoon. I bribed your receptionist—"

The door flew open. "Can you please just _shut it_?" Malfoy stood in front of him in white shirtsleeves, buttoned down to his wrists. His coat was tossed over the back of a chair behind him. "What on earth do you want, Potter? There's nothing we have to discuss."

Harry sighed. "Five minutes, okay? Less even, probably, and then you can toss me out on my ear."

After a moment, Malfoy stepped back. "Two minutes, and I'm timing you. I have work to do."

"I'm sorry about lunch." Harry closed the door behind him. "And I mean that. I wasn't thinking of how it could look."

Malfoy sniffed haughtily and sat behind his desk. His glasses lay abandoned on his desk blotter next to a high stack of papers and an open file folder. "You seldom do think, Potter. Which is exactly why you're in your current troubles."

"Probably." Harry sat across from him; Scorpius and his mother watched him suspiciously from over Draco's shoulder. He sighed. "I'm really not trying to influence you, all right? It's just...look, I don't know if you're aware or not but it seems as if our sons have become..." Harry hesitated. "Friendly."

Malfoy leaned back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm aware," he said finally. "Much to my great chagrin."

Harry bristled. "Here now, there's nothing wrong with Albus—"

"Oh do breathe," Malfoy snapped, tugging at his shirtsleeves. Silver cufflinks glinted at his wrists. "I may dislike Scorpius associating with a Potter, but I'm not about to forbid him the only friend he seems to actually enjoy. And at least your son is a Ravenclaw." He scowled down at the papers sprawled across his desk. "Flitwick says Scorpius' marks in Charms _have_ improved," he added grudgingly.

"We don't know where he gets it," Harry said with a faint smile and he nodded towards the picture. "It's not easy raising kids alone, is it?"

Malfoy didn't say anything for a moment. "We're not the same, Potter," he said finally. "Establishing a..." he curled his lip, "..._rapport_ isn't going to work with me."

"Christ, if I was as bloody Machiavellian as you think I am—" Harry broke off and slouched in his chair. He hated it when the shit could see through him. "All right. Fine."

He almost thought he saw a small smile play across Malfoy's mouth. "A word of more than two syllables," Malfoy said. "Impressive."

Harry flicked two fingers at him.

"And there, the Gryffindor returns." Malfoy rested his elbows on his desk. "Your two minutes is up, Potter. Do fuck off now." He pulled his folder back in front of him.

The message was clear; Harry pushed himself out of the chair. "Right then. Thanks for the talk, I reckon. Hope the paperwork goes well."

When he closed the door behind him, Malfoy was watching him surreptitiously through a curtain of blond hair.

Harry smiled. The door snicked shut as he headed back to the Wizengamot's chambers.

***

The day Rabastan Lestrange was killed seemed like any other. It was warm for early March; Harry'd not even bothered with a cloak when he'd Flooed in from the flat.

He'd had his morning tea and an orange currant scone (and a half) that Paolino brought him when she'd come in an hour later with a cheery _Good mornin', sir_. The Prophet had been sorted through and then binned, he'd answered a few interoffice memos and checked the upcoming hearing schedule to make sure he'd enough men to cover all the necessary elements, and then he'd straightened his robes, dusted off a few stray crumbs and headed out to the Wizengamot chambers.

Harry's team had set up a security procedure. No one entered the Wizengamot level without proper Ministry clearances. Holding cells were on twenty-four hour guard, as were the hearing venue and the homes of each Wizengamot member and solicitor, whether prosecution or defence. Prisoners were brought through a warded back entrance and past several checkpoints staffed by Aurors and calibrated to the magical signatures of those with access clearance.

It'd worked perfectly for weeks, not a single glitch in the entire process.

Until today.

Harry'd been watching from the door of the hearing chambers, waiting for the Aurors to reach the last checkpoint before he'd run the final scan to allow Lestrange in before the Wizengamot. Everything had been in order. They'd done this so many mornings now that it'd become almost boring to watch Lestrange shuffle in magical chains up the hallway, surrounded by four Aurors and two Hit Wizards. His eyes were slightly wild, his teeth yellowed, but he wore the neat navy robes his defence had dressed him in for the past week and he made no attempt to do anything that might be the slightest bit untoward. He never had.

For a Death Eater Lestrange was surprisingly dull.

It happened so quickly that no one had time to stop it. One of the Aurors at the checkpoint—Kennicot, Harry thought he was—whirled as they passed through, and with a shout of _quod differtur, non aufertur_ raised his wand to his own temple.

The explosion rocked the hallway; Harry'd never forget the look of shock on Lestrange's face as he was engulfed in a burst of red-orange flames that shot down the hall.

Harry'd barely had time to slam a shielding charm in place, just before the flames reached the stunned Aurors in front of him. They burned white-hot for a moment, feeding on the charm's power before turning in on themselves in a burst of blue light that dissipated, leaving behind only a faint shower of falling ash over the bodies lying strewn along the corridor.

"Fucking hell," Harry murmured, and the overpowering stench of burned flesh made him stumble forward, falling to his knees and retching onto the black marble beneath his hands.

***

The file folder slammed onto Harry's desk.

"Thomas Kennicot," Shacklebolt said, dropping into the chair across from him. "His whole personnel file and believe me, they didn't want to release it upstairs. Privacy, my arse."

Harry pushed aside his papers on the Order of Hythlodaeus. They'd nothing on them, other than a few letters here and there they'd been able to collect, mostly from the Prophet archive. Nothing past a year back; it seemed to be a relatively new group of nutters.

"Anything from the autopsy yet?" Harry asked.

Shacklebolt shook his head. "Not much they can find. He blew himself up but good, the idiot. They haven't found any magical residue that might indicate Imperius though."

"Shit."

"My sentiments exactly." Shacklebolt leaned forward, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair. He tossed a stasis phial on Harry's desk; it rolled until it hit a half-empty mug of lukewarm tea. "They did, however, find this on a chain lying on the ground at the point of explosion."

Harry picked up the phial curiously. A small copper amulet rotated inside of it, the edges burned. Harry's eyes widened. Engraved onto the blackened surface was a horse ridden by two men carrying shields. He flipped through the papers on his desk until he found the one he was looking for: an enlarged sketch of the sealing wax from Hythlodaeus's last letter. "Christ," he whispered and he met Shacklebolt's sober gaze.

"They can get inside," Shacklebolt said. "One of us, Harry. We can't stop that."

Harry stared at the floating amulet. "We'd have to not trust anyone."

Shacklebolt didn't answer.

"What are we going to do?" Harry said finally, setting the phial down.

"The only thing we can." Shacklebolt pressed his steepled fingers to his mouth. "Only essential personnel with the highest security clearance on this level. Everyone else gets moved upstairs."

Harry nodded. "That'll cut my force."

"We'll transfer other Aurors in." Shacklebolt gave him an even look. "You could end up working with Weasley down the road."

"Going to have to at some point," Harry said grimly and he ran his hands over his face. "Do what you need to do. We'll handle it."

Shacklebolt stood up. "You're a good man, Potter. An idiot at times, but a decent chap overall."

Harry smiled. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"It was meant to be."

The door closed behind Shacklebolt. Harry reached for the phial again.

***

"Potter."

Malfoy strode across the Atrium quickly, his face tight and drawn, a black dragonhide satchel slung across his chest, bumping against his hip with each step he took.

Harry stopped around the corner from the lift, his hands shoved in his pockets. "Yeah?"

"I suppose this is all your recommendation," Malfoy spat out.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Witches and wizards swarmed around them, heading for their various offices. It was nearly half eight and Harry was already running late.

Malfoy's mouth drew down sharply. "The fact," he snapped, "that not only did my department get moved to bloody level four—and do let me tell you what a _joy_ it is to have my now closet-sized office directly across from the Pest Advisory Board especially on Doxie Day—but it also appears that my security clearance has been downgraded which effectively makes me entirely unable to perform my wretched job in any adequate manner."

"I didn't touch your clearance," Harry said. "I wouldn't have any reason to—"

"Oh really." Malfoy jerked his left sleeve up; his cheeks flaming. "And I'm sure this had nothing to do with it."

The faint outlines of a Dark Mark were faded into Malfoy's pale skin. Harry took a step back. He'd known, of course, since the end of the war; he'd just never _seen_ it on Malfoy. It was oddly disturbing.

Malfoy's jaw tightened and he pulled his sleeve back down. "I want my clearance back, Potter."

Harry glanced away. Eric Munch sat at the security desk, registering wands for each of the visitors coming into the Atrium and scratching his ratty grey beard every few seconds as he eavesdropped on their conversation. "I'll see what I can do."

"You'd damned well better." Malfoy brushed past him. "You _don't_ want me unhappy, Potter, when I'm in the middle of writing your report."

He stomped off towards the lift.

"Bit of a diva, wouldn't you say?" Munch said after a moment and Harry sighed.

"That's an understatement," he muttered, and he turned as he heard his named called again.

Paolino was hurrying towards him with a sheaf of papers in her hand. "Sorry, sir, but I've got to have your signature right away or it'll be another two weeks on Hooley's promotion and then Shacklebolt would like to see you in his office and—"

Fuck Malfoy, Harry thought as she chattered on, walking with him towards the lifts, and he dove into his day.

***

Life slowed strangely for the next few weeks. The hearings were postponed until clearances and security could be reestablished, and Harry'd found himself deep within the sluggish bowels of Ministry bureaucracy: waiting for clearances to be reconfigured, waiting for his security plans to be vetted by the MLE and the Minister, waiting for the new transfers to his force to be approved. His days were filled with meetings and briefings and paperwork...all the dull minutia of administrative life that Harry despised.

He escaped home at nights, often absconding with his copies of the Hythlodaeus and Kennicot files, pouring over them, looking for that slight connection that would cause everything to make sense.

He hadn't found it yet. So instead, when his eyes began to burn from reading yet again, he'd set the file aside and lounge around his flat, watching the Premier League and sharing a beer with Godric.

Surprisingly enough, Harry was starting to get used to eating alone at night now. He'd begun cooking a bit—at least more than Heinz beans on toast and Pot Noodles and the occasional fry-up. Nothing extravagant, mind, but he liked to think he'd developed a deft hand at a stir-fry. He'd even tried a chicken and leek pie he'd seen on a cookery show repeat he'd stumbled across while flipping through the Beebs during a bout of insomnia. It hadn't turned out all that well—or really, at all—but it was the attempt that mattered, right?

Right.

The worst of it since he'd moved into the flat had been Valentine's Day. It was a ridiculous holiday. He knew that. He and Ginny hadn't even bothered celebrating it, really. But he'd always woken up to a silly hand-drawn card from Gin mocking the day, and he'd always brought home takeaway for dinner so she didn't have to cook, and they'd always gone to bed a bit earlier than usual that night and fucked their bloody brains out.

He'd missed her that night, and dinner had been a tasteless curry that he'd abandoned after two bites, preferring instead to drink himself into a stupor and spend the rest of the night curled around his pillow, too pathetic to even get up a good wank.

Harry didn't like to think about that.

Tonight, however, he'd mastered—or close enough that he hadn't burned the damn thing at least—an omelette, seasoned with just a bit of pepper and parsley and onion. He ate it leaning against the counter, plate in hand, beer at his elbow and Godric sat at his feet with pleading eyes and a low whine. Harry shook his head. "Honestly, do you realise how pathetic you are?" he asked and Godric barked.

Harry took the last bite of egg and onion and washed it down with a swallow of beer. "Sorry, mate." Godric sulked, turning his back on Harry with a growl.

The Floo clanged softly in the lounge. "Harry?" Ginny called out and Harry blinked.

That...was a surprise.

He wiped his hands on a dishcloth and tossed the plate into the sink before hurrying to the Floo. "Gin."

His wife's head turned in the fire. "Oh. There you are." Her eyebrows were drawn together, her forehead wrinkled in that way that Harry'd learned meant she was worried.

"What's wrong?" Harry squatted next to the hearth. "Are you all right?"

Ginny sighed and she looked weary and worn out. "You need to talk to your son."

"Which one?"

"James." Ginny's hand appeared, pushing her hair back out of her face. "Harry, he came home a few days ago—and don't shout at me for not telling you earlier. I've been trying to get him to go back, but he's decided he's done with school, that he doesn't need to finish his NEWTs, and of course my bloody stupid brothers are encouraging him—"

Harry shook his head. "Ron told him it was all right to leave Hogwarts?"

"No." Ginny looked as if she might cry. "_He's_ at least being sensible. As are Percy and Bill. But Charlie and bloody George are telling him it's perfectly acceptable for him to do something as ridiculous as this, and this is _all_ your fault, Harry so I expect you to fix it."

Godric padded out of the kitchen and rubbed up under Harry's arm. Harry scratched his ear absently. "How am I to blame for this, Gin?" he snapped.

"James wasn't like this before you lost your bloody mind and decided to go chasing trousers—"

"Gin."

His wife glared at him mulishly, her eyes bright in the flickering green flames. "It's true, Harry. He's just been so difficult this term. They all have. The way Lily speaks to me..." Her voice broke. "I'm not going to be blamed for what you did, Harry. I'm not going to watch my children destroy their lives just to get back at you for being an enormous _twat._"

"What am I supposed to do? He won't even speak to me—"

"You're supposed to pull yourself together and act like a _father_ for once in your life, Harry." Ginny rubbed at her temple. "You know, really, I'm tired of being the only parent here. All you want is to be their mate. To have them like you better than me—"

A wave of anger swept through Harry. "That's not true."

"It's not, is it?" Ginny fell silent, her mouth tensing. She huffed softly. "Maybe you should take a look at your children for once, instead of thinking of yourself. Have you asked after them at Hogwarts? Had their Heads of House keep an eye on them? _I_ have. Albus's marks are slipping this term. Lily's had four detentions so far just for being out in the halls at night because she couldn't sleep. James hasn't gone to half his lectures for three weeks now. I suppose it shouldn't be a shock that he just packed his trunk and walked out the other night."

The fire popped and crackled. "I didn't think," Harry said finally, trailing off.

"You never do." Ginny sighed. A lock of hair tumbled over her cheek; she brushed it back. "You need to talk to him. He's your son and the longer you put it off the worse everything's going to be."

Harry licked his lip. "And if he doesn't listen?"

"Then at least you've tried." Ginny sounded exhausted. Godric whined softly at her and she gave him a faint smile before looking back at Harry. "Whether or not he thinks he does, he needs his father to be a father."

Harry trailed his fingers through Godric's fur. The dog licked his bare foot. "Where is he?"

"Gone out." Ginny's face fell. "We had a row again after supper, he and I. He'll be at the shop tomorrow though. George's taken him on as an assistant for a bit. See how it works out and all that." The look she gave Harry was troubled. "He's a good boy at heart. He's just upset right now."

"I know." Harry shifted on the balls of his feet. The muscles in his thighs shuddered. "I'll go talk to him in the morning."

She nodded. "Thank you."

"He's my son too, Ginny," Harry said quietly.

"I know." She fell silent for a moment. "I should go."

"Yeah." Harry hesitated. It'd been so long since they'd talked. And he missed her. He truly did. You didn't just toss two decades of togetherness out the window that easily. He wanted to say so much. To ask her where he'd gone wrong, what had happened to them, why he'd turned out this way. Instead he just murmured, "It's getting late."

"You're still taking Al and Lily the first week of Easter hols?"

"If that's okay with you," Harry said. Flournoy had argued with Cratsley for two weeks to get the kids for Harry. They'd settled on a week with Harry, a week and a half with Ginny. Sometimes Harry wondered if the solicitors made the fight harder than it needed to be.

Ginny nodded. "It is," she said finally. "Don't forget to meet the train."

"I won't."

He sat by himself in the flickering flames after she rang off, shadows stretching across the length of the lounge. He'd been trying to avoid thinking about it, he knew. The affairs and what they meant. He didn't particularly like the idea that he was a poof; it didn't feel right for him to say he was gay. He still liked tits rather a lot, after all, and it wasn't as if he wouldn't ever take a woman to bed again.

Fucking men wasn't something he'd meant to do, except perhaps it was, if he was really honest with himself. Zacharias had just happened; an opportunity that had presented itself. He'd been out drinking with the lads, and they'd all stumbled home one after another, Ron leaving him on the corner with Zacharias as he headed off to Hermione's bed. Harry'd known he should have gone home, but he and Ginny had been arguing for weeks and the kids had just left for Hogwarts and the start of autumn term. All he'd wanted was another drink, and Zacharias had said _Come home with me; I'll open a bottle of whisky_. They'd drunk half of it before Zacharias had lurched forward, kissing Harry wetly, and Harry...Harry had kissed him back.

He wished he could say he'd never thought about it before then, but he had. For years he'd wondered what it would be like to kiss Ron instead of Ginny. He'd almost done it more than once. And when Zacharias' mouth had pressed against his, Harry hadn't even thought of Ginny. Hadn't even considered it cheating because it'd been so bloody different from being with her, and he _knew_ that was mad. Deluded.

She'd been asleep when he'd come back home, and he'd showered before sliding into bed next to her, his blood still thrumming through him, his cock still half-hard at the thought of his hands on Zacharias' back, Zacaharias' arse tight around his prick as he begged Harry to fuck him. When he'd woken Ginny up before dawn to fuck her angrily against the headboard, it hadn't been his wife he'd been thinking of.

Harry'd promised himself he'd never do it again.

Ironically it'd stopped their row. Pulled them closer together, at least for a few weeks until the arguments started once more. And then he'd started sleeping in the guest room the nights Ginny locked him out of their room, and he was picking fights just so she'd shove him out and ward the door shut—almost as many times as Ginny was picking them herself.

He didn't know how they'd managed not to hex each other to hell and back, but they'd both been miserable and doing anything to avoid one another. He'd started working late, sleeping sometimes at the office with the excuse that he'd only have to come back in two or three hours if he went home. And when Harry'd found himself next to Viktor Krum one evening at a fundraising dinner for youth Quidditch charity, he'd let himself flirt just enough to be astounded when Viktor had flirted back.

Their fling had been just that. Nearly a month while Viktor had been in Britain scouting Quidditch players for the team he owned, and Harry'd Flooed into Viktor's rooms in the Savoy's wizarding wing at least two or three times a week—sometimes for a few hours, sometimes for an entire night, stumbling back to the Ministry before dawn to sleep another hour or two in his office. It'd been wrong and ridiculous and bloody excruciatingly hot as he watched Viktor arch beneath him as Harry fucked him in quick, rough strokes.

Had it been worth it? Losing his wife, alienating his children, having his friends turn away? Harry leaned against the side of the fireplace, the fire warming his back through the thin cotton of his t-shirt. Godric rested his head on Harry's thigh and looked up at him with wide, dark eyes. Harry toyed with the dog's floppy ears. "Was it, boy?" he murmured, and Godric sighed heavily. "Yeah. About what I was thinking."

The fire had burned to low embers before Harry stood up and flicked his wand towards the hearth with a quiet _nox_.

***

George looked up from straightening the floating display of Portable Swamps when Harry came into the shop, the bell on the door honking madly as it swung shut behind him.

"Harry," he said, and his tone was decidedly chill. His red hair was pulled back in a short ponytail; his sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. He stretched to set another box at the top of the spherical pile.

"Ginny said James was here," Harry said and he shoved his hands in his pockets.

George jerked his head towards the workroom door. "In the back."

"Thanks." Harry wove his way through the stacks of Wildfire Whiz-Bangs and Patented Daydream Charms. "James," he called, pushing the workroom door open.

"I'm almost done, Uncle Ge—" James broke off, looking up. "Oh," he said dully. "It's you."

Harry studied his son. James was too bloody thin; there were dark circles under his eyes. "You look like shit."

"Right. Thanks." James picked up a tray of love potions. "I've work to do."

Harry levitated the tray out of his hands. "And I'd like to talk."

James curled his fists into his robe. "I don't have anything to say to you."

"You left school. Your mum's upset."

His son shrugged and leaned against the worktable, crossing his arms over his chest. "She'll get used to the idea."

Harry just looked at him for a long minute. "I know I hurt you—"

"Oh, fuck off," James said sharply. "You didn't hurt me. I don't fucking give a shit about you, Dad. As much as you'd like to think it does, the bloody world doesn't revolve around you. But Mum—what you did to her—Christ—"

"I fucked up," Harry said.

James gave him an even, bitter glare. "No shit."

With a sigh, Harry sat on one of the stools next to the table. He picked up a fake wand, watching dully as it collapsed into a rubber chicken, wings flopping. "I can't take it back, Jamie."

"Don't call me that." James blinked hard, and he twisted his fingers in the sleeves of his robe.

"James," Harry said softly and he reached out to touch James' hand.

His son jerked away. "This isn't something you just waltz in and make better," he said tightly. "You're a fucker, and I don't trust you. You lied to Mum for so fucking long..." He trailed off. "You lied to all of us."

"I didn't mean to." Harry twisted the chicken between his fingers, tugging at the scrawny legs. It squawked; he dropped it on the table and it transfigured back into a wand again.

James shrugged. "Doesn't matter."

Harry didn't say anything for a moment, then he looked up. "Your Mum wants you to go back to Hogwarts, and I agree."

"Bollocks on you then," James said. He turned a love potion on the tray to face the same way as the others. "I'm not going back."

"You're going to throw your life away—"

James whirled around; his hand knocked the love potions aside, scattering them across the worktable. "And suddenly you're so bloody worried about _my_ life, are you?"

"You're my son," Harry snapped. "Of course I am—"

He caught James' wrist just before his son's fist would have hit his jaw. They stared at each other, breathing hard. James' eyes were wide, almost horrified.

"Don't try that again," Harry said quietly, and he dropped James' hand. His son turned away, blindly gathering the phials of potion, his shoulders hunched, red hair falling over his flushed cheek. Harry wanted to pull James up against him and hold him tight, wanted to tell his boy that everything would be okay, wanted to make things _better_, damn it.

He couldn't.

James straightened the rows of phials. "I need to get to work." He didn't look at Harry. "If you're done."

"James." Harry felt so bloody helpless against his son's anger.

"Please, Dad." James gripped the edge of the worktable. He turned towards Harry and his freckled face was pale and pleading. "Just go."

"You heard him, Harry," George said from the doorway. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall. "You should leave now."

Harry looked from his brother-in-law to his son, both faces set against him. Not much of a choice, really. "Right," he said slowly.

George followed him out of the workroom and closed the door behind them.

"How is he?" Harry asked after a moment.

"Not so well." George turned and stopped in front of Harry. "I haven't talked to Gin about this yet, but I found this on him the other day." He held out a small, half-empty phial. Harry took it from him, turning it in his fingers, then opening it to sniff.

"Felix Felicis," he said grimly and George nodded.

"And I went through his satchel when he was off at lunch. Privacy be damned." George pulled a few hand-rolled fags from his pocket and a small pouch of dried herb and parchment skins. "I found these. Mallowsweet, and judging by the smell, he's dipped them in Euphoria."

"Jesus fucking Christ." Harry started back for the workroom. George caught his arm.

"Don't." George cut off Harry's protest. "You go back in there right now and confront him about this and all he'll do is tell you to fuck off again. It won't do either of you any good."

"You _know_ what this shite might do in excess, especially if it interacts with mallowsweet..." Harry shook George's hand off. "You can't expect me to let him go on..."

George stepped in front of him. "I expect you to use some common sense," he said quietly. "He's angry with you, Harry. More than any of the rest of us and don't think we're not properly narked. But James is seventeen and had his bloody world pulled out from beneath him. He's not handling it well—it's classic acting out and in ten years he's going to feel a right tit about it all. But if you go back into that room right now, you'll push him further into this. You're a fucking Auror; you've seen it happen to other families."

The phial was cold against Harry's palm. He rubbed his thumb over the stopper. Flakes of sealing wax broke off, drifting to the floor, glinting copper in the sunlight. "I just never thought it would happen to my family."

"I reckon none of us did." George looked away. "Christ, Harry, we _all_ trusted you. You might as well have been our fucking brother—" His voice caught and he shook his head. "Look, I might really want to tell you to shove off the Dover Cliffs right now, but that boy in there is my nephew. And I'm not levitating him to the kerb because his father's a giant arse." He took the phial from Harry. "Charlie and I both know what's going on with this, and frankly, it's fucking better for him to be here with us than back at school with whomever gave this to him. At least we can keep an eye on him. This could be a one-time thing. Or not."

"Right."

"Give him a few days, Harry. Then come back and see if he'll talk to you."

Harry felt nauseous. "Are you going to tell Ginny?"

"No." George gave him an even look. "You are."

Christ.

He dug in his robe for a pack of cigarettes.

***

Ginny'd been furious at him when he'd Flooed her.

_You're a bloody awful father, Harry,_ she'd said tightly before slamming the Floo shut. Harry didn't think she was half wrong. He'd grabbed his cloak and fled his office, needing to just get _out_ for Christ's sake. It was still several hours before his afternoon meeting with Flournoy, and he didn't care. Instead he'd wandered unnoticed along the Embankment under a Disillusionment Charm, watching the Thames drift by, his breath a burst of white in the still cold air as he pondered exactly how badly he'd bollocksed up not only his life, but his family's.

He'd no bloody idea how to fix it all.

Now he sat in the anteroom of Flournoy's office, a converted parlour in a Mayfair townhouse just off Grosvenor Square, waiting for his solicitor to return from lunch—at the Athenaeum, the receptionist had whispered conspiratorially as if that was supposed to mean something to Harry. Frankly, all Harry cared about was the fact that Flournoy was twenty minutes late and he had to be back at bloody work in forty.

With a sigh, Harry dug through his pockets for his small notepad, flipping the black leather case open with practised ease. A tap of his wand against the blank page and a murmured _lectori salutem_, and the page filled with scrawled notes sent to him in the past few hours by his staff and fellow Aurors.

Might as well see what he'd run out on.

He quickly erased the unnecessary Ministrywide ones—_Join us today at half-four for a special retirement party celebrating Ogretta Makepeace's ninety years with the Cauldron Trade Regulatory Committee_ and _Available this week only on the snack cart: Fortescue's pumpkin peppermint!_ and _Important information regarding holiday pay_—and wrote out a quick reply to Paolino's request for an afternoon off to go shopping for her wedding dress since her mum was in town from Over Stowey.

A turn of the page and there was a note from Hermione. _Drinks tonight? I could use a glass of wine if you pay. Oh and the latest Wizengamot schedule's been issued. Am including. Looks like we'll be starting up again week after next._

Harry brushed the tip of his quill across the attachment. It took a moment, but it finally rose to the front of the page, a swirl of faint grey letters firming into black.

The second name on the list was Lucius Malfoy.

"Shit."

It wasn't as if it should be a surprise. Malfoy the Elder had been sent to Azkaban a year after the war. He'd be eligible for this round of paroles. Harry had no bloody idea why the idea unsettled him as much as it did.

The quill scratched across the paper as he scrawled a note back to Hermione. _Ta, love. Will get a table at Wormwood and a bottle of best wine. See you at half five._

He slipped his notepad back into his robe and stared blankly at the wall in front of him, his mind whirling until Flournoy bounded in with a cheerful _Harry, my boy. Let's get started, shall we?_

***

"So what are you going to do?" Hermione set her wineglass down and reached for a pepper from the plate of calamari between them. She smiled up at the waiter who brought another basket of bread doused with herbs and oil.

Wormwood was quiet at this hour; a few witches and wizards gathered at the bar, laughing over gimlets and whisky sours. Harry poured another glass of merlot for himself and leaned back against the corner wall. A saxophone bobbed and twisted in the air next to a wizard on a drum set; soft jazz underscored the muted chatter. "Let George and Charlie talk to him first. George is right, you know. I go in there and give him what-for he's not going to do anything but dig his heels in."

"Maybe." Hermione ran her finger over the rim of her glass. "Ginny's upset."

"I don't blame her." Harry studied the painting above them of Hyde Park a hundred years past. Witches and wizards moved among the Muggles, bright splashes of color in a sea of black frock coats and dove grey bustles. "I'm upset."

"He might have an acceptable reason for using it." At Harry's rolled eyes, she leaned forward, her elbows on the table, fingers twisting in her loose curls. "You did when Dumbledore gave you a phial."

Harry sighed. "We were at war, Hermione."

"Maybe a Quidditch match was important to him," she said quietly, pointedly, and Harry leaned back in his seat.

She had a point.

Hermione watched him for a moment. "I'm not saying he shouldn't be watched. God knows I would."

"I know." Harry tore a piece of bread in half and popped it in his mouth. It tasted of rosemary and pepper and olives.

"You're worried," Hermione said. "You and Ginny both, and you're upset anyway about everything that's happened and if I know you, feeling guilty—as you should for certain things," she added sharply before Harry could speak. But she reached across the table and brushed her fingers over his knuckles. "And all of that means you're far more likely to think the worst right now."

"So you think I should talk to Jamie."

Hermione lifted her wineglass. "I don't think you should shout at him." She looked at him over the rim. "I know Albus and Lily are easier right now, Harry. And I can only imagine how awful it must be to have one of your kids so angry at you. But do you really think leaving him be right now is going to do any good? Whatever George says?"

The saxophone swung into a mournfully sweet Celestina Warbeck cover. Harry twisted the stem of his glass between his fingertips. "I really hate it when you're right," he said finally.

She smiled faintly. "I know."

***

Harry switched on the telly, flipping through channels—with a muttered _Fucking wankers_ at Arsenal TV—until he found Setanta Sports 1. The match with Derby had just started. With a flick of his wand he levitated a pizza box and a couple of beers over to the couch and plopped down, sighing, a stack of folders propped on his knees. The nice thing about living alone was that at least he didn't have to listen to Gin bitching at him for bringing work home any longer. Or for watching the match while he ate for that matter. He bit into a lukewarm slice of pizza, the cheese sliding to one side, and leaned back against the arm of the couch.

Godric barked, his paws resting on the couch cushion. Harry looked down at him. "What?" Godric stared at the beer bottle, his tail wagging from side to side, and Harry laughed and shook his head. "Christ. All right." He cast a Sciphus Charm and tipped his bottle over the edge of the couch. Godric whined and bounced as the beer caught in mid-air, splashing into the invisible bowl. "I don't know which one of us is more pathetic," Harry murmured, and he took a swig of his beer as Godric lapped happily.

The first folder was filled with security clearance requisitions waiting for a rubber-stamp approval. Harry scrawled his name at the bottom thirty times as Tottenham managed to block the Derby offence twice.

"Oh, sod you, you fucking windbag," he snapped as one of the commentators decried the Spurs' 4-4-2 formation, and he tossed the folder aside and reached for another.

It was a copy of Ron's notes from the Hythlodaeus investigation. Interviews. Research. Test results on magical residue. Autopsy results. Harry sat up, the game nearly forgotten as he sifted through the file.

_...subject shows no signs of Imperius or other known compulsory magic... _

...what? You not heard anything of 'em yet, have you?...

...'ere now, you can't be too careful nowadays, right, so maybe I ain't nothing to say about nothing, if you knows what I mean...

...curse residue on the bodies indicates that the magic used may be a modified and enhanced version of the Flagrante Curse used extensively in the Second Voldemort War in combination with Cruciatus, causing the magical resources and nerve endings within the body to ignite, resulting in extreme traumatic burns and ancillary damage to soft tissue and potential loss of life...

...I hear talk about things on the Continent, right? Not that I'm pointing me finger at anyone or anything, but if everyone thinks all them Death Eaters be dead or in Azkaban, that'd be bloody stupid, I say...

...would consider this curse to be Dark in nature....

...linguistic roots of the incantation seem to be Eastern European in nature....

...there's mean, see, and there's mad. I don't trade with the latter...

Harry leaned his head against the back of the couch, staring up at the ceiling, his thoughts whirling.

He didn't even notice that Derby won.

***

"I read your report," Harry said.

Ron looked up at him. "Did you."

"Yeah." Harry sat down. The bookshelf behind Ron's desk was filled with photographs of Weasleys—Harry saw his three kids waving from one picture to the left—and volumes on wizarding code and MLE procedures. A half-dead _Mimbulus mimbletonia_ propped up one leaning stack of recent Auror reports. Ron was a damn good Auror and leaps above Harry when it came to investigative work.

"And?"

Harry gave him an even look. "I think we should start looking into possible Death Eater cells on the Continent."

Ron nodded. "Already started."

"And?"

"I'm going to Moscow tonight to meet with the FKSB." Ron leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his neck. "They've agreed to give us access to their recent records to see if we can match any of our persons of interest."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "We have persons of interest?"

A small smile quirked the corners of Ron's mouth. "We will by the time I get back next week. I've been looking into Walkenhorst's files too. He's been involved with Death Eater hearings from way back. First and second wars. Might be something that ties in."

"Good." Harry stood up. "Keep me informed?"

"Yeah."

Harry stopped at the door, his hand on the knob. It was smooth and cool under his fingers. "And the lot of you keep an eye on James for me, will you?" he asked softly, without turning around.

He heard Ron take a deep breath, and then, "Yeah. You know we will."

"Thanks."

Harry closed the door behind him.

***

Malfoy leaned against a pillar on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, Prophet in hand. He didn't even bother to look up when Harry stopped next to him. "You never did fix my security clearance," he said, and he turned a page.

"Forgot about that." Harry lit up a cigarette and leaned next to him. "Sorry."

"There's another pillar five metres away." Malfoy snapped the paper and frowned down at a full-page advert for Gregory's Unctuous Unction. "Go lean there."

Harry blew out a thin stream of smoke. "Might as well wait here with you. Chances are our sons will be joined at the hip."

"Circe, I hope not," Malfoy muttered and he folded the Prophet and tucked it in his bag. "Are you going to insist upon annoying me with your presence?"

"Does it bother you?"

Malfoy frowned. "Are you an idiot?"

"Maybe." Harry grinned at him. He liked sparring with Malfoy, he'd discovered. Maybe he always had. He took another drag on his cigarette and tapped the ash off.

"That's a filthy habit."

Harry puffed out a smoke circle and rolled the cigarette between his fingers as he inhaled again. The end flared orange-black. "I know."

They fell silent for a moment. Malfoy studiously stared down the platform, away from Harry.

"I'll have Albus and Lily for a week," Harry said at last. "The solicitors said—"

Malfoy turned his head then, and his blond hair swung against his cheek. Harry liked that Malfoy didn't seem too bothered by his slightly receding hairline, didn't make any attempt to hide it. It oddly suited his pointed face. "I don't particularly care," Malfoy said.

"Will you shut it and let me finish?" Harry lifted his cigarette to his mouth again. "Christ, you're too damned prickly sometimes."

That earned him a baleful glare and rolled eyes. "Finish."

Harry dropped his cigarette to the bricks and ground it out with his heel. A flick of his wand banished the butt. "I thought perhaps Scorpius might sleep over for a night."

Malfoy stared at him. "At your flat."

"Well, I wouldn't make him sleep in the alley. Jesus. Yes. My flat. With Al. I'll provide butterbeer and cauldron cakes and other things that fifteen-year-old boys will inhale until they cheerfully sick up."

"Scorpius hasn't ever stayed over at anyone else's house before," Malfoy said slowly. He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared out across the train tracks.

Harry leaned his head against the pillar. "Why not?"

"No one's ever asked." Malfoy looked over at him. His face was uncertain. "But it's against protocol. I'm still working on your report, after all."

"My son isn't me. And I don't have any intention of trying to influence Scorpius in my favour." Harry shifted, turning towards Malfoy. The pillar was solid and firm against his shoulder; his robe caught on the brick. "It'll be good for Al to have a friend around. Anyway, since when did you start playing by the rules? I thought that wasn't a Slytherin thing to do?"

"Slytherins make the rules fit," Malfoy said absently.

"Exactly."

A train whistle blasted, reverberating off the platform as the Express began to slow into the station. After a moment, Malfoy nodded. "I'll ask him if he wants to go."

Harry didn't have a chance to reply before the train stopped and the doors popped open, children spilling out with shouts of laughter.

"Dad!" Lily bounded towards him, her robe flapping behind her. Albus followed in her wake, his dark head bent close to a blond one, their hands flying. Harry caught his daughter and swung her around before dropping her back to the ground.

A group of girls passed them, shouting _See you in a fortnight, Lils_, and Lily waved and tugged her satchel up on her shoulder. "Come _on_, Al," she called back to her brother, and Albus looked up from his conversation with a scowl.

Harry watched as Scorpius touched Albus' arm and nodded then walked towards his father, his face brightening. Malfoy smiled—the first genuinely warm smile Harry could remember seeing cross his face—and it took Harry's breath away. Malfoy's hands moved, a quick blur of fingers and motion, faster even than Albus'. In return, Scorpius laughed—too loudly and a bit roughly, Harry noticed—and the quick look he shot Albus' way was excited.

"What's going on?" Albus pulled his tie off and shoved it in his pocket.

"I thought maybe Scorpius might spend a night with us this week." Harry draped his arm over his son's shoulder. "I'm taking a few days off as it is..."

Albus's eyes widened. "Really? Are you serious? He could come over?"

"Dad," Lily whined. "That's not _fair_. I could have invited Melisande—"

"Later." Harry ran a hand through her hair and looked back at Albus. "If Mr Malfoy agrees, then yes."

Malfoy nodded. "I'll bring him by Saturday evening and pick him up Sunday."

"Brilliant." Harry grinned at him and Malfoy took a step back, his cheeks flushing. He put his hand on Scorpius's shoulder.

"We should go." He pulled his son away quickly, but not before Scorpius shot a wide smile back at Albus.

Albus pushed his glasses up his nose and beamed back.

***

Dinner was kofta and beyti kebabs at Beyoglu just off Diagon Alley, then Harry strolled through the crowded street with his kids, stopping to peer into brightly lit shop windows and enjoying the hustle and bustle of a Friday night out. He ignored the whispers and glances shot their way as did Lily, who merely tossed her head and threaded her fingers through his and chattered on about trying out for Quidditch next term, perhaps, and did he think it was a good idea?

Albus, on the other hand, dipped his head and hunched into his jumper, his cheeks flushing. Harry squeezed his son's shoulder gently. Albus gave him a small smile.

"Jamie!" Lily shrieked and then she was darting through the crowd, throwing herself at her older brother as he stood on the corner with two other boys, sharing a cigarette. James only looked slightly embarrassed as he pulled his sister up next to him and ruffled her hair.

Albus gave Harry an uneasy glance. "Go on," Harry said, and he pushed Albus forward. Harry hung back for a moment, eyes narrowed as he studied the boys with his eldest son. They looked rough around the edges, just scruffy enough to set Harry's teeth on edge. Not the sort that he'd want James to associate with, though he supposed perhaps he was just bloody old enough to be petty and judgmental about Today's Youth. For all he knew they could be perfectly pleasant lads...

He stepped closer. Albus was talking now, hesitantly, telling James about the plans for Scorpius's visit the next night, and then James looked up, his eyes meeting Harry's. The open warmth in his face disappeared; his eyes shuttered, cold bitterness seeping into his gaze and the tenseness in his shoulders.

"Jamie," Harry said.

His son ignored him and turned to his sister. "Tell Mum I'll come by for dinner when you two make it home—"

"You're not staying with Mum?" Albus asked, his brow crinkled.

James shook his head. "Rented a room from my lads here. I thought it'd be best." He looked at Harry then, mouth tight. "All things considered."

"Have you," Harry said flatly. "And your uncles thought this was a good idea?"

"My uncles," James said and he stepped away from his sister, untangling himself from her arms, "can shove off."

"James," Harry started, but the other boys stepped forward.

"Best be going, mate," one said, handing the cigarette back to James without looking at Harry, and with a quick brush of his mouth against Lily's hair, James turned and followed them.

Mouth pursed, Harry watched his son walk off.

"Dad?" Albus said, worriedly as Lily glared down the street at her older brother's back.

"It's fine, Al." Harry tried to smile over at Albus. It didn't work. "What say we head to Fortescue's? I could go for some almond peppermint gingersnap."

He didn't wait for them to answer.

***

The doorbell clanged at half four exactly, sending Godric into a fit of barking.

Malfoy looked rather pained when Albus threw open the door, Harry at his heels. "Hush, Godric," Harry said, and the dog settled into a quiet whimper.

"Wise dog." Malfoy stepped into the flat, Scorpius behind him. The boy looked around him, curiously, before Albus fell on him, grabbing his bag.

"Come on," he said, "I'll show you my room," and the two of them were off, feet pounding down the hallway, Godric bounding after them.

Harry shook his head. "I vaguely remember having that much energy."

"You're old." Malfoy shifted and crossed his arms over his chest. "I trust, however, that you'll manage to make certain my son remains alive over the course of the next twenty-four hours?"

There was a high-pitched _Albus, you sodding shit, get out—oh, you bastard! Don't you dare let off in my room—Dad!_ from down the hall and the slam of a bedroom door followed by boys' laughter. "Language, Lils," Harry shouted as he hid a smile. He turned to Malfoy. "I think I can handle that."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "If he has so much as one scratch on him, Potter, it'll affect my recommendation."

"I thought we weren't bringing that into the mix?"

"_You_ aren't." Malfoy opened the door and looked back over his shoulder. "I, on the other hand, made no such promise."

"Prick," Harry muttered. He closed the door on Malfoy just as Lily stomped into the lounge, clad in a t-shirt and shorts, her wet hair twisted on top of her head, with a _Dad, he's being an arse—_

"I'll keep him out of your bedroom," Harry said wearily.

It was going to be a long night.

***

The Floo call came after dinner. Lily had retreated to her bedroom, mumbling something about stupid boys underneath her breath, but Harry'd watched her eye an oblivious Scorpius in interest all evening. Not that he could chide her for doing so; he'd been looking at the boy curiously as well. Scorpius was as quiet and guarded as Albus tended to be, but the boys' nearly silent conversation had been animated, if nearly silent.

Still, it was good to hear Albus's laugh. It'd been a while.

"Dad," Albus had called from the lounge, "Mum's on the Floo."

Harry'd sworn under his breath as he dropped the empty pizza box into the rubbish bin. It disappeared with a soft woosh of a banishing charm.

"Gin," he said, sitting on the hearth. The boys were across the room, fiddling with the telly. Scorpius had a look of sceptical horror on his face as Albus showed him how the Muggle device worked.

Ginny's mouth tightened in the green flames. "I can't believe you, Harry Potter. Don't think Cratsley's not going to hear about this."

"What are you talking about?" Harry rubbed his forehead, his fingers trailing over his scar. "What have I done now?"

"Scorpius Malfoy," Ginny hissed and she darted a glance back behind his shoulder. "Entirely unethical. And you of all people, trying to influence Malfoy?"

"Christ. Not you too."

Ginny tossed her hair, the red curls twining with the embers for a moment. "So other people have noticed."

"No. Jesus." Harry pushed his glasses up his forehead and pressed his fingers against his eyes. He was so bloody damn tired of arguing with her. "Look, Gin, this has nothing to do with trying to get in better with Malfoy so he'll take my side. All right?"

"Then what _are_ you trying to do, Harry?" His wife's voice was tight and high. He could see the pulse in her neck flutter.

_Exterminate, exterminate_ echoed behind him in a monotone; Tom Baker mumbled in response. "I'm just trying," Harry said finally, "to encourage our son to have a bloody friend, Gin—"

"He has Rose," she snapped. "And Hugo."

"A friend who's not related to him." Harry sighed and leaned against the side of the hearth. The brick was warm against his shoulder. "If you think it gives me an unfair advantage then Floo Malfoy and invite his son over yourself. _I_ certainly don't have any objections."

"Maybe I will."

"Then do it." He hesitated. "I ran into James last night. He says he's his own flat now."

She was silent for a moment. "Yes."

"You didn't tell me."

Ginny pressed her knuckles against her mouth. "I was hoping he'd come back home. Or that I could make him come back. Hermione says he's over his majority now and I can't if he doesn't want to."

"No." Harry closed his eyes for a moment. "What are we going to do about him, Gin? I don't particularly like those blokes he's moved in with."

"Neither do I." She sighed. "George and Charlie have talked to him, you know. About the potions. He says they're not his."

"Do you believe him?"

"I don't know." Ginny sounded tired. "I don't know who to believe any more."

Harry ran his hand over his face. "I'm sorry," he murmured, and he meant it. Maybe for the first time.

"I know," she said quietly. "I should go. You've the children to watch after..."

"Yeah." The emptiness in her eyes twisted Harry's stomach. "Night, Gin."

He closed off the Floo and leaned his forehead against the hearth brick, breathing in the woodsy tang of the crackling fire.

"Dad," Albus called from the couch, "want to come explain Doctor Who to Scorpius?"

Harry took a steady breath. "Sure," he said, standing. "Where should I start?"

***

Pale grey-white light filtered through the curtains when Harry woke up from a dream he couldn't quite recall, though he knew it involved long pale limbs and a soft mouth. Christ. It'd been three months, one week and four days since the last time he'd got off with anyone other than his own right hand, and as much as Harry enjoyed wanking—and he very much did—it just wasn't quite the same as having someone else's hands slide across your skin.

He groaned at that thought and rolled out of bed, reaching for his pyjama bottoms. It felt wrong to wank with someone else's kid in the flat.

Especially Malfoy's.

The clock on the wall read two after six, and even the cuckoo on top leaned to one side, snoring.

Godric yawned and blinked up at Harry, uncoiling himself from the bottom of the mattress with a hopeful look that said _Feed me, please._

"Come on, boy," Harry said, opening the door and Godric stretched, then jumped off the bed with a clicking of his nails against the wooden floor. He trotted down the hall, still yawning, and Harry followed.

Harry stopped when he entered the kitchen; Scorpius sat curled in his pyjamas on the window seat, staring out into the neighbour's side garden. Rain trickled down the windowpane and darkened the roof across the way.

Scorpius jumped when Harry touched his shoulder, his eyes wide and startled before he relaxed.

"Mr Potter," he said. His voice was thick, syllables swallowed slightly, and a bit louder than Harry expected. He pulled his knees up to his chest.

Harry sat next to him. "Didn't mean to startle you. Can't sleep?" Scorpius shook his head and Harry smiled faintly. "Me either."

Scorpius looked out the window for a moment, then back at Harry, grey eyes curious. He looked rather like his father had, years ago. Harry resisted the urge to brush his hair back out of his face. "Is it hard?" he asked after a moment. "Not hearing?" Harry flushed. "I mean, of course, it must be hard, what am I saying—"

The boy laughed. "Sometimes," he said, and his hands moved as he spoke, smooth and graceful. "But only when people make it." His smile faded. "They do that often."

Harry nodded and leaned against the window, crossing his legs beneath him. The glass was cool against his shoulders. "School?"

"Mostly." Scorpius lifted one shoulder eloquently. "They think I'm a freak when I talk and when I don't." He jerked his fist from side to side. "Wankers."

"Descriptive, but probably very true." Harry eyed him and held his hands up, wiggling his fingers. "Think you might teach me some of that?"

Scorpius blinked at him. "You want to sign?"

"Well, if you're going to pop over now and then, reckon I should be able to talk to you properly," Harry said. "It's only manners, right?"

A bright grin spread across the boy's face.

***

The Northern Line post-King's Cross station was still packed with Tottenham supporters, most of them drunk off their arses and singing at the top of their lungs.

"Oh when the Spurs go marching in," Lily sang along, clinging to one of the poles, her blue and white scarf twisted around her neck, "Oh when the Spurs go marching in—"

Her brother draped his arm around her shoulder. "I want to be in that number..."

Harry watched in amusement as they leaned in together, shouting _Oh when the Spurs go marching in!_

Scorpius shook his head and pulled his coat tighter as he eyed the Muggles around them suspiciously. His fingers flew in Albus's direction. Harry's son just laughed.

"What's that about?" Harry asked, grabbing the upper railing as the train lurched forward. A burly man reeking of Carlsberg slammed into his back with a _sorry, mate_.

"He thinks we're mad," Albus said, grinning up at Harry. "And that we should have had a bloody Portkey."

Lily bumped her shoulder against Scorpius's. "It's an adventure!"

Scorpius rolled his eyes and gave the drunken couple next to him a sour look, but a small smile curved his mouth.

_Camden Town..._, the modulated woman's voice said over the loudspeaker as the train pulled into the station. _Mind the gap._

Harry herded the children up the escalator and out onto the street. Christ, he couldn't wait until they all passed their Apparation exams.

It took nearly fifteen minutes to walk the three blocks to Hawley Crescent, thanks to the frequent stops one or another of them made, peering into shop windows along Camden High Street or stopping to flip through a stack of books on a street vendor's cart, only hurried on by Harry's frequent _Lils, leave that for later_ or _Keep up, lads._ When they turned the corner from Stucley Place, however, Harry tensed at the familiar sharp tingle found only in an MLE mix of Disillusionment and Obliviation charms, along with a healthy dose of Muggle-Repelling spells.

He had his wand in his hand. "Something's wrong."

Aurors were spilling out of his building, filing the kerb. "Dad," Albus said faintly, and Harry touched his shoulder.

"It'll be fine. Just wait here—"

"Harry!" Ginny hurried down the street, Malfoy at her heels. She threw her arms around Lily and Albus both. "Oh, God, we didn't know if you were in there—I'd hoped the match ran long—"

Malfoy grabbed Scorpius, his hands frantically smoothing back his son's hair. "You're all right?"

"What's going on?" Harry asked Ginny, but it was Malfoy who responded.

"Well, if it wasn't bloody obvious, your flat exploded." He was pale, and his hands shook as he pulled Scorpius closer. "A half hour ago. The Aurors came immediately."

Harry stared at his building. The windows to his flat were shattered; the window sashes were blackened and faint curls of smoke still drifted from the wood. "Fucking shit."

"I Flooed Draco as soon as Ron got hold of me," Ginny said. "We didn't know—the children—" Her voice cracked and she pressed her mouth to Lily's forehead.

"Where's your brother?" Harry asked. "Is he here?"

"Up in the flat." Ginny caught Harry's hand. He looked back at her. "I'm sorry," she said quietly, blinking hard.

Harry's eyes flicked over to Malfoy, then back to his wife. "Stay here. I'll send someone to get you all home."

Malfoy nodded, a curt dip of his head, and he touched Ginny's arm. "Sit on the steps over here and for Circe's sake, try to breathe. It's not going to do any good for you to have the bloody vapours right now."

"Oh, do shut it, Malfoy," Ginny said tightly, and Harry bit back a near-hysterical laugh as he ran up the front steps. Strange to think that Malfoy of all people knew exactly how to pull Gin together. He opened the door and glanced back over his shoulder.

Malfoy was watching him, a curious frown creasing his brow. At Harry's raised eyebrow, he flushed, scowling, and turned away.

"Cadwallader, Scurlock," Harry barked at two young Aurors lounging about the foyer. They snapped to attention. "Make certain Mr Malfoy and my wife get to their respective houses safely with the kids."

"Should we secure the premises, sir?" Cadwallader asked and Scurlock smacked the back of his head.

"Don't be a dolt. That's what the deputy head's asking," Scurlock said, rolling his eyes. "Fucking stupid shit—"

"Fuck off yourself, you wanker—"

"Oi!" They fell silent at Harry's shout. He glared at them. "Just get them home without incident, please? And I expect each of you to remain at the houses until you receive direct orders from me otherwise."

Cadwallader nodded. "Right, sir. Shall do." They headed out the door.

Harry shook his head. Christ. He started up the stairs.

***

The flat reeked of burnt wood.

Harry wandered through the rooms blankly, the Aurors making way for him. Everything was destroyed. The leather sofa was shredded, the telly had imploded, the table and chairs in the kitchen were charred and smoking. Chunks of plaster tumbled from the walls and ceilings. "Christ," he murmured.

"It's bad," Ron said quietly, leaning on the doorjamb of Harry's bedroom. "The Obliviation Squad had to tell the Muggles it was a gas explosion."

Aurors were sifting through the wreckage of his bed and wardrobe. Hooley crouched in the corner; when he stood, Harry had a glimpse of spotted fur. "Godric—"

Ron stopped Harry, his hand gentle on his arm. "You don't want to go in there."

"My dog...." Harry felt numb, empty. The enormity of it all sank in. If they'd been home...if the train hadn't been a few minutes late...if the kids hadn't lingered on the walk home from the station... Harry looked at Ron. "Who did it?" he asked flatly.

He already knew the answer.

Ron handed over the note, his mouth a thin line. "The owl arrived just after we did. They timed it beautifully, the fuckers."

The note was filled with the usual unintelligible tirade and signed with the sealing wax imprint. Harry folded it back up and handed it to Ron. "You just got back from Moscow?"

"Friday night, yeah." Ron walked with him down the hallway. He lowered his voice. "I'm pretty sure I found a connection to Antonin Dolohov's family. They keep a fairly low profile. Noses clean and all that. But the FKSB's been watching them for decades now. Past ten years now they've been doing business with the branch of the Macnairs in County Wicklow. Importing. If you know what I mean."

"What sort?" Harry stopped in the lounge, his hands in his jeans pockets. "Potions, artefacts, what?"

"All of the above and more, from the Russian reports." Ron ran a hand through his hair. "I'm going to Dublin tomorrow to check the Garda Síochána files. See if there's any corroboration there." He hesitated. "Kennicot's mother was a Macnair."

"Fuck."

"Yeah."

"Any idea why they might want to derail the hearings?" Harry asked. "Doesn't seem like something former Death Eaters would want to do."

Ron shrugged and shook his head. "Not yet, but there's got to be reason. Some sort of link between all the attacks. I'm having Wickford dig a bit deeper." He looked at Harry, brow wrinkled. "Are you all right?"

"I reckon." Harry sighed and leaned against the wall. He watched a scrap of moulding fall from the corner of the ceiling. It crashed against the floor, sending a small puff of white dust scattering across the wood. "This could have been worse."

"Yeah."

Neither of them said anything; finally Ron sighed and knocked his shoulder against Harry's. "I'm glad you weren't here," he said, voice quiet. He stared straight ahead, his arms crossed over his chest. "Don't particularly want to lose you like this." He hesitated. "Even if you are a shit."

Harry smiled faintly.

"'Ere now, this is a crime scene," a grizzled Auror said from the hallway, "you can't just be bargin' in—"

The door flew open and James stumbled in, jerking away from the Auror's hand on his shoulder. "It's my father's flat—"

"Jamie?" Harry pushed off the wall. "It's fine, Reilly. He can come in."

"Bastard," James muttered, and he brushed at the dusty sleeve of his robe. He turned, staring around at the lounge. "Nice decorating."

"Thought I'd go for the genteel shabby look," Harry said. "What are you doing here?"

James glanced at him then, almost absently. "Mum Flooed Uncle George." He scraped his boot across a chunk of plaster; it smeared across the burnt floor. "I wanted to see—" He broke off. "Mum said Lil and Al were okay."

"They're fine. Your mum's safe at home with an Auror looking after them all."

Ron came up behind Harry. "Reilly's right though, you shouldn't be here."

"He can stay if he wants." Harry studied his son. James was disheveled, robe rumpled, his red hair standing on end.

"What happened?" James still didn't quite look at him; instead he focused on the scorched walls, the crumbling mantel. Magic still thrummed through the flat, soft, tingling throbs that ebbed and flowed across Harry's skin.

Harry looked around and sighed. "Seems like the same blokes who didn't care much for Lestrange or Walkenhorst decided to pay a visit."

James' face paled. "Oh." He twisted his fingers in the wool of his robe. "Where are you going to stay now?"

"A hotel, I reckon." Harry shrugged. "I'll find a place—"

"You'll stay with us," Ron said, and he didn't look at Harry. "You'll need MLE protection anyway."

Harry blinked. "You're certain..." He trailed off.

Ron's jaw tightened. "I'm not saying I like the idea," he said gruffly. "It just makes the most sense. We already have Aurors watching over the house anyway because of Hermione."

"All right then." Harry's shoulders relaxed and he smiled at Ron, warm and open. "If it makes sense."

Ron snorted.

Hooley came out of the bedroom, carrying Godric. The beagle's tail hung limply over his arm; he was wrapped loosely in the bedsheet. "Oh." Hooley stopped, shifting from one foot to another. "I thought you'd left, sir."

"It's all right," Harry said softly. He took the dog from Hooley; Godric was heavy against his chest. Stupid dog, Harry thought, blinking hard. He took a ragged breath and closed Godric's eyes.

James smoothed his fingers across Godric's nose. His hand shook. "He—" He broke off, voice tight. "Stupid dog," he whispered, and he pulled away.

"Jamie," Harry said, but his son was already turning on his heel.

"I have to go, Dad," he said, his shoulders slumping. "I—I just have to go."

Harry didn't stop him.

***

Malfoy lived in a rowhouse just off Bedford Square in Bloomsbury, grey brick with white trim, black iron fence and a small apple tree starting to bud.

Scurlock leaned against the lamppost one house down, wand out as Harry approached. A pool of light spilled over him, warm against the lengthening shadows. "Sorry, sir." He holstered his wand. "Didn't recognise you there for a moment."

Harry glanced up at Malfoy's door. "He threw you out, eh?"

"Soon as we arrived. Said he didn't need a Ministry babysitter, thanks ever so, and he didn't care what bloody Harry Potter said—sorry, sir—and you and I both could sodding well sod off for all he cared. Direct quote, that." Scurlock grinned. "Reckon he's in a bit of a temper."

"Go ahead and take off," Harry said. "I'll check in on him. Just have the duty Auror send someone else on night shift out this way."

Scurlock nodded. "Shall do."

Harry climbed the steps and pounded at the door. The knocker coiled beneath his fingers and lifted a bronze, serpentine head with a hiss and a narrowing of carved eyes. "Name?" it asked.

"Potter."

The head bobbed again, and slid through the wooden door.

Barely a minute passed before it was thrown open by Malfoy, barefoot and clad only in his trousers and an untucked white shirt, a glass of whisky in one hand. "What are you doing here?" he snapped.

"Well," Harry said calmly, "seeing as how I just checked in on Ginny and my kids, I thought I'd stop by to make sure you and Scorpius were all right."

Malfoy's eyes narrowed. "We're fine." He started to close the door; Harry caught it with one foot, pushing it back open.

"Really." He stepped into the foyer, wide and bright with soft cream walls and a wide curving staircase. "How much have you had to drink?"

"Not nearly enough to be forced to deal with you." Malfoy sighed and took a sip of his whisky. "You can leave now."

Harry closed the door behind him. "Or not."

Malfoy gave him a baleful glare. "I'd say I'm Flooing the Aurors, but I suppose that's of no use when it comes to you."

"Not really, no." Harry followed him down the hallway. Malfoy's feet slapped softly against the parquet floor; he ducked into a side room lined with bookcases.

"Sit," Malfoy said, gesturing with his glass towards a pair of leather armchairs next to the hearth. Whisky splashed over his hand and he licked it off. "I don't have any beer."

"Whisky's fine." Harry sank into one of the chairs, smoothing his palms over the butter-soft leather.

Malfoy poured two fingers of whisky and handed him the glass. "They're from the Manor," he said, sitting across from Harry. He took another drink out of his glass and his mouth twisted bitterly to one side. "Between the Ministry and the solicitors, there's not much left of it."

"You haven't sold it yet." Harry twisted his glass between his hands.

"No." Malfoy gave him an even look. "Just most of the contents. The Malfoy fortune has been _severely_ decimated over the past quarter-century."

"Hence the job you despise."

Malfoy shrugged and leaned his head against the back of the chair. "That and I seem to have an ability to anger influential undersecretaries."

Harry raised an eyebrow.

"Merlin, I'm pissed," Malfoy said and he pushed himself out of the chair and refilled his glass. "It's entirely your fault, you realise."

"How so?" Harry sipped his whisky; it was smoky and rich and most definitely _not_ Ogden's.

Malfoy turned, leaning against the mahogany sidebar. A mirror behind him reflected the pale blond of his hair, the set of his shoulders under white cotton. He stared down at his glass. "I might have lost him today."

"I know," Harry said quietly.

"I don't think you do," Malfoy said, staring blankly in front of him. "You don't know what it was like after Asteria—" He pressed his mouth into a thin line and took a drink.

Harry just watched him.

Malfoy laughed bitterly after a moment. "You know, I never meant to fall in love with her. It's not that I didn't like women; I just preferred men. They were easier. Simpler. Far less complicated. I knew I'd have to get married someday, but I was so bloody _angry_ when Mother arranged it all with the Greengrasses without informing me." He looked at Harry over the rim of his glass. "Why am I telling this to you?"

"Because you're pissed?" Harry took another sip of his whisky.

"I should hate you still, you know," Malfoy said.

Harry looked up sharply. "You don't?"

Malfoy raised his shoulder in a shrug, identical to his son's. "Perhaps I do." He looked away. "You have a horrible habit of getting under someone's skin."

"I've been told that before."

"It's not a compliment."

Harry rested his glass on his knee. "Didn't think it was." He looked around the room. It was small, but the dark green walls were hung with art and the fireplace was carved mahogany with a marble mantel. Not exactly impoverished living, he thought. Then again, given what Malfoy had grown up with....

"How'd she die?"

Malfoy's head jerked up. "No one's ever accused you of having manners, have they, Potter?"

Harry ran his thumb over the rim of his glass. "Just thought you might want to talk about it."

"I don't." Malfoy was silent for a moment, then he walked back to his chair and sat down. "I should throw you out."

"You haven't yet," Harry said. "I think you like talking to me."

Malfoy harrumphed, but he smiled into his glass. "She was researching auditory charms."

"For Scorpius," Harry said softly, and Malfoy nodded.

"He doesn't know." His mouth thinned. "I don't ever want him to know. I don't want him to blame himself." Malfoy pressed his glass into the arm of the chair, then lifted it, watching as the indented circle faded into the leather. "He has a slight bit of residual hearing; not enough for St Mungo's to have reconstructed his hearing fully, but Asteria thought perhaps stronger charms implanted into his ear might help. He'd been ill when he was small, a virus that attached to his neuromagical system, and the Healers could only save his hearing or his magic. We had to choose." He looked up at Harry and his eyes were pained. "Do you know what it's like to have to do that to your child? Cripple him in some way?"

Harry shook his head, his throat tightening. "I can't imagine."

Malfoy gripped his glass in both hands. "I don't think either of us ever really forgave ourselves. Asteria spent the next eight years trying to do anything she could. One of her experiments went badly and she was caught in a magical backlash." He stared into the hearth. "She was dead before I could get to her workroom. It happened a week before Scorpius's twelfth birthday. Three years. Merlin. It doesn't feel that long."

The fire crackled and popped, casting long shadows across the floor. Harry breathed out slowly. "I'm sorry."

"Thank you," Malfoy said quietly.

"How do you do it?" Harry said after a moment. "Be a father? I used to think I knew. I used to think I was good at it. I'm not so certain now."

Malfoy shook his head. "Damned if I know. You're just there I suppose. Stumbling along like an imbecile, bollocksing up your child's life as little as possible."

"I never had a dad around." Harry lifted his glass. "I thought being a good dad meant being good at your job. Providing for them. That sort of thing." He stared down into his whisky. "I don't think I was there as much as I thought I was."

"Oh stop bloody second-guessing yourself," Malfoy snapped. "You just do what you can, Potter, and hope you don't fuck them up too badly and as far as I can tell, you've yet to raise any future Dark Lords."

Harry snorted.

"Not to mention I had a father and I can assure you when push comes to shove it makes very little difference." Malfoy looked away, his mouth twisted to one side.

"His hearing's starting next week."

Malfoy rubbed his palm over his elbow, fingers twisting in the cotton of his shirt. "I know."

"Are you going to go?" Harry asked quietly.

It took a moment for Malfoy to reply. He shook his head slowly. "No. I think not."

"Why?"

With a sigh Malfoy glared at him. "It's none of your bloody business."

Harry just sipped his whisky.

"Circe," Malfoy said, and he drained his whisky. "The last time I spoke to my father was ten years ago to tell him Mother had killed herself. I believe his only reply was to tell me not to bother coming again. I never did."

"Maybe he was just upset."

"Lucius Malfoy never gets _upset_, Potter." Malfoy shifted in his chair, resting his elbows on the arms. His empty glass dangled from his fingertips. "He never forgave me for saving my own arse by testifying against the other Death Eaters."

"Why shouldn't you have turned Ministry's evidence?" Harry asked. "You didn't owe them anything, and without it we wouldn't have nailed half of the bastards."

"Like my father." Malfoy met Harry's gaze. "The Mordred to his Arthur."

There wasn't anything to say to that, and Malfoy shot him a bitter smile. Harry stood up and took his glass from him. "More?"

Malfoy nodded and leaned back in his chair. "So what about you?"

"What about me?" Harry poured more whisky for both of them. He looked up in the mirror; Malfoy ran his hands over his face, pushing his hair back.

"Your marriage. Why'd you throw it away?"

Harry walked back to the chairs and handed Malfoy his glass before sitting. He studied the amber liquid for a moment, watching as it sloshed up the side of the glass. "I didn't even know at first. It wasn't as if I was in love with Zacharias or Viktor. It was just sex." He looked up at Malfoy and found him watching him intently. "I loved Gin. I probably always will in a way, but..."

"You're not in love with her."

"Not any longer," Harry said slowly. "And I don't think she is with me either. I think maybe that's why we started arguing all the time. Picking fights over the stupidest things." He shook his head. "And I'd always wondered what it'd be like..."

"To be with a man," Malfoy said, his voice husky.

Harry nodded, meeting his eyes.

Neither of them said anything.

"I don't think I'm gay," Harry said finally, his cheeks warming. "Just maybe a little bent."

"There's such a thing as bisexuality." Malfoy gave him a dry look. "It has a long and rather secretive history in pureblooded families."

"Really?" Harry watched him.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Well, when one enjoys the company of men but is expected to produce an heir, yes. Idiot."

"You never cheated on your wife."

"No." Malfoy lifted his glass to his mouth. "Not that I wasn't tempted at times. And I fully intended to after we were married. Just..." He looked distant. "I had the misfortune of falling in love with her."

Harry thought of the smiling woman in the photograph on Malfoy's office wall. "Did you ever regret it?"

"Sometimes." Malfoy closed his eyes and ran a finger around the rim of his glass. It hummed softly. "One generally does on occasion. Usually only when I missed the taste of prick."

"Oh." Harry felt his cheeks warm.

Malfoy opened one eye. "I've embarrassed you." He flexed his feet in the carpet, then crossed one ankle over his knee. "The great Harry Potter blushes."

"Fuck off," Harry said easily. "I'm just not used to actually talking about this." He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. He curled his fingers tightly around his glass. "Do you still love her?"

"You don't stop just because someone's dead."

Neither of them said anything. Malfoy traced circles over his ankle with one thumb, watching the fire curl around orange-black embers in the grate. Harry stared at the slight movement of skin on skin, his mouth suddenly dry. He looked up at Malfoy, at his mouth, pink and damp, and Harry wanted to lean over, wanted to know what it felt like to brush his lips feathersoft against Malfoy's, wanted to feel Malfoy's hair sliding through his fingers—

His hand shook as he lifted his glass to his mouth and drained the rest of his whisky, setting the glass down on the side table with a soft thump. "I should probably go," Harry said at last. "I just thought I'd make certain you were okay."

"We're fine."

Harry pushed himself out of his chair. His robe swung forward, the folds of navy wool falling around his calves. "I'll let myself out."

Malfoy waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the hall. "If you must." He levitated the bottle of whisky over.

Harry turned towards the door; Malfoy stopped him with a quiet _Potter_, and he looked back.

"I'm asking to be taken off your case," Malfoy said, sliding his hand down the whisky bottle, fingers scraping at one corner of the label. "I'll turn my files over to another reporter this week. Whomever takes it over may wish to redo your interview."

"Why?" Harry pulled at a hangnail; blood welled up over his thumb with a sharp sting. "All this work you've done."

Malfoy's eyes met his, strangely soft in the shadows. "It'd just be best." Harry's breath caught, and Malfoy's mouth twisted down.

Harry stepped closer, his heart in his throat, and Malfoy shook his head. "Don't."

"Why would it be best?" Harry asked, his eyes fixed on Malfoy.

Malfoy closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. He took a shaky breath. "It'd just be best," he said again, trailing off as he turned back to his whisky, pouring another glass and downing half of it in one gulp. "You should go."

Harry hesitated. He wasn't certain what was going on, wasn't certain what Malfoy meant, wasn't certain what he was feeling. Wasn't certain of bloody anything right now, right at this moment.

"Go," Malfoy said, barely above a whisper.

"Don't get pissed out of your mind," Harry said softly, and Malfoy gave him a weary frown.

"Get out, Potter."

With a nod, Harry left, glancing back through the open doorway to see Malfoy run a hand over his face, his shoulders hunched forward.

Harry's steps echoed through the hall; he turned the corner into the foyer to find Scorpius sitting on the bottom step, his arms wrapped around his pyjamaed knees, fingers smoothing across the dark plaid flannel. He stood up.

"Mr Potter."

"Scorpius." Harry hesitated and then clumsily signed _How are you?_

"Okay." Scorpius ducked his head, his eyes darting back down the hallway. He tugged on the hem of his t-shirt. "My dad?"

Harry shifted from foot to foot. "He's fine. Just...tired."

"He's pissed, isn't he?"

Harry didn't answer and Scorpius nodded. "It's okay," the boy said. "He doesn't do it very often, only when something's upset him badly." He stepped off the stairs, shivering as his feet hit the cold floor. "I'm not supposed to know."

"Do you want me to stay?" Harry asked, glancing hesitantly back down the hall.

_No_, Scorpius signed and he lifted his chin. His hair fell back from his forehead; he looked exactly like his father. "He's just worried about me." He rubbed the nape of his neck, eyes tired. "I'm all he has left."

"I know."

Scorpius nodded. "Thank you."

Harry looked away. "You're welcome." He felt oddly like a coward as he fumbled for the doorknob; the air was cool against his flushed skin as he closed the font door behind him.

One of the junior Aurors jumped up from the steps, flustered, shoving a paperback into his pocket. "Sorry, sir, just resting for a moment—"

"Resting is not an option," Harry said, flipping his scarf over his shoulder. "You'd damn well better be able to report to me in the morning that everyone in that house is in the same condition in which they entered it."

The Auror paled and nodded. "Yes, sir. Will do, sir."

"See to it." Harry walked down the street, his head spinning and the wind knocking through the branches above.

***

With a flick of her wand Hermione tucked the edges of the sheet under the mattress and folded the coverlet down at the bottom of the bed. "Are you certain you'll be okay up here?"

Harry sat on the edge of the bed and glanced around. The guest room under the attic eaves was small but cosy and Harry was ready just to curl up under the crisp sheets and sleep. It'd been a _hell_ of a day. "I'm certain. Thanks for putting me up, love."

"Well, I don't know where else you'd go." She sat next to him and sighed. "Some of Ron's old jeans and robes are in the wardrobe. I've tried to transfigure them to fit, but you might want to do a bit of tailoring yourself. He's a good stone or two on you."

Harry nodded. "He's okay with me borrowing them?"

"I didn't even have to ask him." Hermione leaned back against the headboard and pulled one foot up on the bed. "He brought them up himself." She studied Harry. "You look a bit upset."

"Just tired." Harry kicked one boot off and started unlacing the other. "I'll be fine."

"Harry," she said softly and he looked up at her as she leaned forward and touched his cheek. "You've just lost everything—"

The boot dangled from Harry's fingers for a moment before dropping to the floor with a thud. He stared down at his blue socks. Snitches darted across them, followed Seekers on brooms. "Maybe not everything," he murmured, and he smiled faintly.

***

Paolino shoved the Prophet at him the moment he walked into the office. "Have you seen this?"

Harry stared down at the front page. The headline above the fold read in type nearly a handspan wide _Saviour of the Wizarding World Attacked In His Home_. "Shit."

"It gets worse." Paolino set a cup of tea on his desk, thick with milk and sugar. She flipped the paper over for him.

Zacharias Smith's smug face hovered at the top of a sidebar proclaiming _Homosexual Romance Ends Wizarding Hero's Marriage._ Orla Quirke's byline ran beneath it. "Oh, fucking shit," Harry murmured as he skimmed the article. "I was in love with him? He begged me not to leave Gin because of the kids? Has he lost his sodding mind?"

"Evidently," Paolino said, wrinkling her nose. "Bollocks on him, I say."

"I'd agree. And bollocks on bloody Quirke." Harry threw the Prophet in the Floo; the flames curled around the paper, licking at it eagerly. "Christ, Gin's going to be narked." He glanced over at Paolino. "You don't seem surprised."

"It's not really been that much of a secret, sir," Paolino said apologetically.

"Ron."

She nodded.

"Shit," Harry muttered and he collapsed back in his chair, fingers rubbing his temple. It was going to be one of those days, he could already tell.

Fuck it. He might as well get another unpleasant task over with.

"Reschedule my nine o'clock with Weatherspoon, Annie." Harry stood up. "I've someone else I need to speak with."

***

The holding cells in the MLE were not the most sumptuous accommodations one could imagine, warm in the summer, cold in the winter, with rough-hewn stone walls and a heavy iron bed charmed to the floor.

Harry nodded to the Auror in charge as the first set of heavy barred doors swung open for his clearance. "Malfoy?" he asked and the Auror nodded down the narrow hall.

"Second cell on your left, sir."

Harry stopped in front of a heavy wooden door. One touch of his wand to the keyhole and the wood faded away, leaving behind an iron-barred arch. Lucius Malfoy sat stiffly on the thin ticking mattress, feet booted and Azkaban robe hanging in neat folds. His hair was pure white; it fell to his hips now. He ran his fingers through it in slow, even strokes, working out the few snarls and tangles.

"And to what do I owe the honour of a visit from the Deputy Head of the Auror force?" Lucius asked without looking at Harry. "Surely you don't grace every Death Eater with your presence, Mr Potter."

Harry leaned against the door, hands curling around the bars. "Curiosity, I suppose. Wondering what it might be that would cause a son not to give a damn about his father for ten years."

Lucius looked over then. "I was not aware you were on such intimate terms with my son that a discussion along that lines would be either appropriate or of interest."

"It's more like your grandson and my son."

"I see." Lucius stood. A small patch of faux sunlight filtered through the miniscule magical window high in the wall. It caught in Lucius' hair and glittered for a moment before he slipped back into the shadows. "My grandson is well then."

"Why wouldn't he be?" Harry asked sharply, fingers tightening on the bars.

Lucius curled his lip. "Given that I've had no correspondence with my son—"

"At your own request," Harry snapped. "Why would you do that to him?"

"That," Lucius said tightly, "is entirely none of your business."

Harry looked away. He was right. Harry knew he was right. He didn't have any bloody idea why he even gave a damn.

"You've a curious interest in my son."

"We're friendly." Harry ran a hand through his hair. "Our sons are friendly."

Lucius gathered the striped folds of his robe in one hand, pleating them without thought as he studied Harry. "He's fifteen now," he said after a moment, voice quiet. "I've only seen him three times, you know. Asteria brought him once."

"She's..." Harry broke off. It wasn't his responsibility to say this. It was bloody Malfoy's for Christ's sake. This wasn't why he was here.

"Dead, yes, I know." At Harry's surprised look, Lucius snorted. "Just because I have no direct communication with my son does not mean I do not have access to basic information regarding my familial welfare."

Harry didn't say anything.

"What is it you came down here for, Potter?" Lucius asked, moving closer to the door. "Surely it wasn't to discuss my son."

Harry felt his cheeks warm. "Look, what do you know about the Order of Hythlodaeus?"

Lucius gave him a blank look. "Why should I know anything?"

"Don't lie to me," Harry snapped. "Dolohovs. Macnairs. Order of bloody fucking Hythlodaeus." He shoved a copy of the sealing wax imprint through the bars. "You've seen this."

"I've no idea what you're on abo—" Lucius broke off, staring down at the rough outline of two knights on a horse.

"What is it?"

Lucius lowered the paper. "Why should I tell you?"

"Because two people are dead and your grandson could have been caught in an explosion at my flat this weekend." Harry's mouth tightened. "I'm not fucking around here, Malfoy. If you know something, you better fucking tell me or I'll make certain the Ministry makes it clear to the Wizengamot that you obstructed an investigation."

"Indeed." Lucius narrowed his eyes at him. "And if I assist?"

"That can be shared with the Wizengamot as well."

Lucius walked a few steps away, paper pressed to his mouth, then turned on his heel, looking back at Harry. "Walden Macnair and Antonin Dolohov. They were..." He flared his nostrils "Lovers, for lack of a better term. Not that either of them was open about it, of course. His Lordship didn't particularly care for _that_ moral deviation, and there was the necessity of heirs for them both, of course. Nevertheless, certain of us were privy to their secret."

"And this has to do with the order in what way?"

"If you will allow me to continue," Lucius said tightly and Harry shrugged. "They used this to mark their personal correspondence. As for the name Hythlodaeus, Antonin used that as a codename during the war." He looked at Harry. "He found the half-blood Thomas More's writings to be...amusing."

"Shit," Harry murmured. "He's dead, though. We've listed him for years as felled by Flitwick. There were witnesses...and Macnair died in Azkaban last year."

"Perhaps."

Harry looked up sharply. "What exactly are you suggesting?"

Lucius sat on the edge of his bed. "Merely that someone is obviously making reference to that relationship and that if you are any sort of Auror at all, you would be best behooved to look into it further." He looked bored.

"If you're lying to me, you'll regret it," Harry said. He Summoned the paper from Lucius's hand, catching it deftly, and turned.

"Potter."

Harry glanced back.

Lucius smiled, a small twist of his mouth to one side. "I always thought Draco was far too fascinated with you for his own good. It was always Potter this, Potter that on holidays. You're the reason his mother and I started suspecting it would be difficult to marry him off, after all. There's hate, you see, and then there's infatuation."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Really." Lucius raised an eyebrow, and Harry's face flamed. "I suppose Draco could do worse than the Saviour of the Wizarding World."

"Fuck off," Harry said and with a flick of his wand, he set the wood back in the door.

***

"Have you lost your mind?" Ginny asked Harry, pacing across his office. "Has _he_ lost his mind?"

Harry set his quill down. He was almost finished with the report on his discussion with Lucius sodding Malfoy and he wanted to get the damned thing finished and sent upstairs to Ron and his team. "Gin, I really have to work. Can this wait?"

"No, it _can't_ wait." His wife turned on her heel, her arms crossed over her chest. She drummed her fingers against her elbows. "It's the end of bloody March, Harry, and suddenly our family reporter decides he can't make an impartial decision on our case? What the hell have you done to Malfoy?" Her eyes narrowed. "Did you fuck him?"

"Don't be ridiculous." Harry shifted uneasily in his seat, recalling a certain dream that'd woken him that morning. "It could be he feels he may be influenced by Al and Scorpius."

Ginny frowned at him. "Right." She hefted her purse over her shoulder. "All I know is that dragging this out longer isn't going to do the children any good. And I don't even want to talk about that awful Prophet article this morning." Her mouth tightened.

"What do you want?" Harry carded his fingers through his hair. "Do you want me to say I've no interest in my kids? Because that's not bloody likely, Ginny, and frankly, if Malfoy thinks he should be removed from our case, then he's right. It's the ethical—"

"Since when did Malfoy ever give a damn about ethics?" Ginny shook her head. "Somehow you're responsible for this."

"Christ."

His wife looked back at him from the door, and her eyes were bright. "I just want this to be over, Harry. I'm tired. It hurts again every time we do this, and I just need it to be done with. I can't keep going through it over and over." She swiped the back of her hand across her cheek, leaving behind a wet streak. "Don't make it harder for me. Please."

Harry sat silently for a moment. "I'll talk to Flournoy," he said at last and she nodded.

"Thank you."

Harry buried his face in his hands after she left and breathed out. It just didn't get easier.

***

Flournoy stared at him in disbelief. "You're giving up your custodial rights."

"Yeah." Harry stared out the window. Rain ran in twisting rivulets down the panes, blurring the budding trees and greening grass into impressionistic splashes of colour against London grey. "It's better this way." He turned and looked at his solicitor. "Just prepare the papers. Ginny's right; we've dragged this on too long."

"Do you realise what that will entitle her to? The amount of financial support she'll be able to claim?" Flournoy sat down in his chair and reached for his quill. "She could forbid the children to see you outside of your one weekend a month."

"She could," Harry said quietly. "I don't think she will."

Flournoy pressed his fingers to his forehead with a sigh. "You're handing her a free pass, Harry."

Harry shook his head. "No. I'm handing my kids one."

***

The stars were bright in the cold sky and the moon hung heavy and low over the chimneys and gabled roofs of Diagon Alley. Harry leaned against a wall in the alley behind Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes, waiting. The door creaked open finally, and a warm rectangle of light stretched across the cobblestones.

"Night, Uncle George," James called, closing the door behind him, and Harry stepped out of the shadows.

"Jamie."

His son jerked back. "Shit, Dad. I wasn't expect—is something wrong?" James' voice took on a frantic edge. "Mum—is she all right?"

"She's fine," Harry said. The alley reeked of piss and rotting food from the dustbins shoved next to the wall. "Everyone's fine. I just wanted to talk to you. Alone."

James hitched up his jeans and pulled his robe tighter around him. "I've plans for dinner with my flatmates—"

"You can spare a few minutes." Harry touched his son's arm gently and James chewed on his bottom lip.

"All right."

They walked down the alley, not speaking.

"Well?" James asked finally, stopping under a flickering lamp next to the grimy back entrance of Quality Quidditch.

Harry leaned against the dirty brick, shivering. It was colder tonight than it'd been, the air crisp and clear. "You're well?"

"Is that all you want to know?" James crossed his arms, rocked back on his heels. "I'm fine. Brill even."

"Come on," Harry said. "Don't give me that shite."

James sighed and ran his hands over his face, then through his hair. "What do you want me to say, Dad? That everything's fabulous? My family's cocked up beyond belief, my dad's decided he'd rather be a fucking knob jockey, my brother and sister could have been blown up yesterday, and my bloody dog _died—_"He broke off, his voice cracking, and Harry reached for him; James pulled away. "Don't."

Harry lowered his hand. "I'm sorry. I really am."

"I know," James said after a moment. "It's just been a shit year so far."

They were silent. Harry lit up a cigarette and took a drag off it. The tobacco was sharp and acrid against his tongue. "I know about the mallowsweet," he said, breathing out a stream of smoke that curled around him in soft, grey wisps. "And the Felix Felicis."

James shrugged.

"Fucking stupid of you, you know."

"Could say the same about you and Zacharias Smith." James blew on his hands to warm them, then shoved them in his pockets. "Not to mention the cigs."

Harry tapped ash off the end of the cigarette; it drifted slowly to the cobblestones. "You might have a point. Hypocritical though it might be." He took another drag. "Look, Jamie, you're an adult now. You can make your own decisions and your mum and I—well, there's not an arseload of anything we can do about it. I know I've made a complete bollocks of things lately. But don't use my mistakes to cock up your own life."

"I don't know why you're bothering to give me advice."

"Because I'm your da," Harry said quietly. "And that's what fathers do. Whether or not you like it."

"I guess." James caught his lip between his teeth and looked away.

Harry flicked his cigarette to the ground and banished it with a sweep of his wand. "You don't have to do this by yourself. You can come to me. You can come to your Mum. Or your uncles. Or your Aunt Hermione. Any of us."

James wrapped his arms around his waist and shivered. "I need to go, Dad. The blokes are waiting down the pub for me."

"I mean it, Jamie."

"I have to go." James stepped back and Apparated with sharp crack.

***

Harry was halfway down the stairs when the pounding on the front door stopped.

"Potter!"

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he heard Ron snap just before Malfoy rounded the corner, hand on the newel post.

"Potter." Malfoy's hair was mussed, his cheeks flushed. He scowled up at Harry. "If you _dare_ to stick your bloody nose in my personal business again—"

Harry stepped off the stairs. "I've no idea what you're talking about," he said, confused and he glanced towards Ron who shrugged and crossed his arms, glaring at Malfoy.

"This!" Malfoy waved a scrap of parchment at him. "Since when are Death Eaters allowed to correspond—"

"Give me that." Harry snatched the paper from him; Malfoy turned, running his hands through his hair.

"I can't believe you," he said angrily. "Ten years. Ten _bloody_ years and suddenly he's making demands—"

Harry looked up. "This is from your father."

"Obviously." Malfoy poked a finger at Harry's chest. "And it's entirely your damned fault, you arrogant arse."

Ron stepped forward, eyes narrowing. "Watch it, Malfoy."

"Oh, do shut it, Weasel." Malfoy glared at him, then turned back to Harry. "He wants to see my son, Potter. Insists I bring him to the Ministry because of some ridiculous discussion he seems to have had with _you._"

"Harry?" Hermione stepped out of the lounge, her dressing gown wrapped tight around her. "Is everything okay?"

"It's fine." Harry grabbed Malfoy's arm. "Look, Malfoy and I need to have a bit of a talk—"

Malfoy jerked away. "Get your hands off me—"

"—so we're going to go for a drink down the Angel," Harry continued with a frown at Malfoy. He grabbed his coat from the rack next to the door and shrugged into it.

Ron had already pulled his wand from his pocket, twisting it through his fingers. "Harry, are you certain? The Ferret seems a bit more off his rocker than usual, and that's saying something."

"It's fine," Harry said quickly before Malfoy could open his mouth. "Back later." He shoved Malfoy out the door and closed it behind them.

"I," Malfoy said, dangerously quiet, "will kill you, Potter."

Harry rolled his eyes and started down the front walk. "Come on. I'll buy you a beer."

"I don't care for beer." At a baleful look from Harry Malfoy sniffed. "Fine. But it better be German."

"Just come on, for Christ's sake," Harry snapped, pushing the garden gate open.

Malfoy followed him out onto the street.

***

The Angel was a shit pub in Harry's opinion. The food was rubbish, and it was too damned crowded and too bloody Muggle even for him with the tellies hanging from the bright yellow walls and the customers with their tiny Muggle computers sitting scattered around the tables, staring blankly at the glowing screens. Still, it did have the advantage of not having a damned wizard anywhere in the vicinity, which Harry considered a plus at the moment.

He set another pint of Marston's Old Empire in front of Malfoy—his fourth, Harry was certain—and he sat across from him, nursing his own beer—still his first.

Malfoy picked suspiciously at the half-eaten plate of nachos between them, scooping up a bit of guacamole and popping it into his mouth. "I hate you, you realise."

"And this is a change how?"

A shrug. "I hate you more?" Malfoy licked a bit of sour cream off his finger. "What is this shite?"

Harry grinned into his beer. "Nachos."

Malfoy scowled at the plate. "Take it away."

"It's not that bad." Harry snagged a tortilla chip and bit into it. It was half-stale, half-soggy. He grimaced and swallowed. "Okay, maybe it is."

"You know, really, it was none of your business," Malfoy said, taking another long drink of his beer. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. His eyes glittered too brightly in the shadowed corner of the pub. They were replaying the Arsenal-Man U match on the telly at the end of the bar.

"Are we back to this again?" Harry sighed.

Malfoy glared at him over the rim of his glass before setting it down hard enough to rattle the cutlery on the tabletop. "My relationship with my father has nothing to do with you. Nor does my son's."

"You know, maybe he's a point." Harry leaned forward on his elbow, one hand in his hair. "I mean, I'd want to see my grandson too."

"And perhaps I'd rather keep my son away from my fucking bastard of a father," Malfoy said tightly and he finished his beer. "Another."

Harry shook his head. "You've had enough."

Malfoy's mouth thinned and Harry sighed. A quick motion to the waitress and another pint was on its way over to the table.

"Why are you so angry at him?" Harry asked quietly. "You used to think he hung the moon when we were kids."

"I grew up." The waitress set a frothy glass in front of Malfoy. He picked it up and drank through the head. "My mother killed herself because she couldn't face what he left us to deal with, Potter. She tried for fifteen years and she couldn't. It wasn't just the loss of money. It was the way they looked at her. The fact that she had no one. No friends. No family outside of me and Asteria and Scorpius. Her own sister turned her back on her." He laughed bitterly. "I found her on the floor of her bedroom with three phials of Euphoria scattered across her vanity. At least she died happy."

Harry smoothed his fingers over the pub table. "I'm sorry."

Malfoy stared into his glass. "And then he didn't even care when I told him. He just sent me away and I might as well have lost him that day too. I don't know if I can ever forgive him for that." He took another drink and closed his eyes. "Circe, why do I always seem to get pissed around you?"

"My effervescent personality, I suppose." Harry lifted his own glass. "Nothing wrong in a good piss up."

"Perhaps." Malfoy sighed and drained his beer. "I should go home. It's late." He pushed his chair back and stood, listing to one side.

Harry caught him before he stumbled. "As if I'm going to let you Apparate and splinch yourself." Malfoy was staring at him; Harry's cheeks warmed. "What? Have I got something hanging out my nose?"

Malfoy closed his eyes, then opened them again. "No. I just—" He broke off and shook his head. "I think it might be a good idea if you helped me home, yes."

"Right." Harry dug in his pocket and threw a few tenners on the table. That should cover it, he hoped. He slid an arm around Malfoy's thin waist. "Reckon you can make it out to the alley?"

***

Bedford Square was near silent at midnight, the sound of the cabs and buses running down Tottenham Court Road muted by rows of hedges and trees.

"Where's your key?" Harry asked, disentangling himself from Malfoy's arm.

Malfoy leaned against the wrought iron railing that lined the steps. "Haven't one."

Harry frowned at him over the rim of his glasses. "I'd like to get you in the house without waking up your son. He doesn't need to see you in this state."

"Harry Potter, father figure extrordinaire," Malfoy drawled, and he pushed off the railing, digging in his pocket for his wand. "I'm not _that_ pissed, thank you." He tapped his wand against the doorknocker. "Stultorum infinitus est numerus."

The door swung open and Malfoy stumbled in, Harry at his heels. The foyer was dark; a solitary lamp burned at the landing of the stairs. Harry caught Malfoy's elbow. "Steady there."

Malfoy turned, but he didn't pull away. "What is it about you, Potter?" he asked after a moment.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not quite sure," Malfoy said, and he swayed slightly on his feet. Harry grabbed at him, holding him upright; Malfoy leaned against him. He was solid and warm against Harry's chest. "I've had too much to drink."

Harry could smell the beer on the warmth of Malfoy's breath. "Maybe, yeah."

"You get under people's skin, you know."

"I think you've told me that before."

"Well, it bears repeating. You do." Malfoy's hands smoothed across Harry's chest, and Harry shivered. "You always have."

"What are you doing, Malfoy?" Harry's voice came out in a squeak; he felt his face heat.

"I don't know." Malfoy's breath brushed Harry's jaw. His fingers twisted in Harry's coat. "I just—Circe, Potter—"

The kiss was soft at first, a faint press of lips against lips, and it sent Harry's mind reeling. "Malfoy," he murmured, and his hands tightened on Malfoy's elbows. "This is such a bad idea."

"I know." Malfoy slid his arms around Harry's neck. "I don't care." His mouth opened beneath Harry's; his tongue swept over Harry's bottom lip.

That was all it took.

Harry slammed Malfoy against the wall, pressing into him as their mouths moved together. Malfoy's fingers tangled in his hair, his teeth scraped Harry's lip. "Circe," he whispered again, and Harry shuddered.

He wanted Malfoy. Wanted to know how it felt to be inside of him. Wanted to know what he looked like, flushed and close to the edge—

Malfoy's hips rocked forward; Harry felt the press of his cock, not quite hard, and he gasped. "This is mad."

"Do you care?" Malfoy dragged his mouth across Harry's jaw. "We're drunk—"

"_You're_ drunk—"

"What does it matter?" Malfoy caught Harry's mouth with his, rough and eager. "It's been too long. For me at least."

Harry gripped Malfoy's thin hips tightly, fingers tight on firm muscles and wool trousers. He slipped a thigh between Malfoy's and the other man's groan sent a heated thrill twisting up his spine. "How long?"

"I fucked a whore or two a year after Asteria—" Malfoy broke off and his fingers tensed on Harry's shoulders. "It's been a while."

Harry could feel the sharp jut of hipbones beneath his fingertips as he smoothed his thumbs over Malfoy's hips and he smiled at the sharp intake of breath the small movement elicited. "This doesn't seem like the best place to do this." He rocked into Malfoy, his cock hardening. "Scorpius could—"

"Upstairs." Malfoy kissed him again, teeth and tongue. "If you want."

"Yeah." Harry didn't stop to think. Didn't want to think. Didn't care what this meant. All that mattered was that Malfoy tasted fucking amazing and his cock was aching, and Christ, it'd been _months_ since he'd fucked.

And he wanted to.

Now.

He barely noticed when Malfoy Apparated them; his hands fumbled with the buttons on Malfoy's trousers, fingers catching in wool pleats. "I need to touch you." Malfoy's hands pushed at his coat, shoving if off his shoulders. It landed it a pile of black wool at their feet.

"Fuck—" Malfoy stumbled backwards, pulling Harry down onto a bed. His teeth were on Harry's throat, sharp and hard, and he licked the stinging bites gently. He caught Harry's wrist, pressing Harry's palm down against his cock. "Do it."

Harry jerked Malfoy's zip down and shoved his hand into his trousers, pushing aside soft wool and cotton. His fingers brushed skin—hot and crepey—and Malfoy bucked beneath him with a groan, his hands sliding slowly up and down Harry's arms.

"Please—"

Malfoy's cock was firm and thick in Harry's hand, entirely different from Zacharias' or Viktor's, and Harry stared down at it as he pulled it out, fingers moving across the shaft. Malfoy hissed, twisted as Harry pushed his foreskin forward over the head, and he arched his shoulders into the mattress. Harry pushed Malfoy's shirt up, kissed the smooth plane of his stomach.

"You're beautiful," Harry murmured, watching Malfoy. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes bright and half-closed. His hair tumbled into his face, across the raw silk of the thick navy coverlet.

Malfoy breathed out, his hips moving with each slow stroke of Harry's hand down his shaft. "Take your clothes off, Potter."

"Right." Harry pulled back, and Malfoy raised up on his elbows to watch him undress. He looked wanton, sprawled across the bed, cock jutting from gaping trousers, flushed and hard against his belly, shirt half-done and hanging off one shoulder. Harry hadn't wanted anyone so fucking badly in years.

His arms tangled in his sleeves; he heard the fabric tear as he jerked his shirt off his shoulders. He toed off his trainers and pushed his jeans and pants down, kicking them free. Malfoy stared at him, his gaze sliding from Harry's face to his cock, then he licked his bottom lip, drawing in a shaky breath. His hips shifted, cock thrusting into the air.

"Come fuck me," he whispered, his fingers on the buttons of his shirt, and Harry smiled.

"That what you want?" He reached for Malfoy's trousers, jerking them down his legs and throwing them across the room. Malfoy gasped as he struggled out of his shirt. Harry caught Malfoy's hands and pulled them above his head, the shirt holding them taut as he straddled Malfoy's hips. "Better tell me now."

Malfoy leaned in as best he could and kissed Harry, harsh and quick, all teeth and tongue. "Shut up and fuck me."

"Christ." Harry let go of Malfoy's hands and slid over him, dragging their cocks together, their chests rubbing against each other. He groaned and bit at Malfoy's throat. Men felt so bloody different than women. Harder. Rougher. It was a difference he liked.

Malfoy's fingers grasped the back of his head, his throat stretched out beneath Harry's mouth. "God, you make me feel like I'm eighteen again," he choked out as his hips rocked against Harry's. He hooked a leg over Harry's hip and pulled Harry against him.

Harry hissed and pressed their hips together. Lifting up, he looked down at Malfoy spread beneath him; he was beautiful, flushed and gold. When he reached for Harry, sliding his arms around Harry's neck and pulling into another kiss, Harry groaned. "Do you want me inside of you?"

Shuddering, Malfoy fell back against the bed, and his fingers moved over Harry's shoulders. "There's oil in the sidetable."

"I take it that's a yes." Harry bit Malfoy's lip and pulled away slowly. He crawled across the bed and dug through the drawer in the small mahogany table next to the bed, pushing aside a few old Prophets and the latest issue of Quidditch Monthly. "Wanking material?" he asked, holding the later up and Malfoy smiled.

"On occasion."

The phial of oil was small and the seal had been broken already. Harry smeared a small amount across his palms and over his fingertips. "Roll over."

"Sure you remember how to do this?" Malfoy turned onto his stomach and looked over his shoulder.

"Probably better than you do." Harry smoothed his hands across the curve of Malfoy's arse, smiling as Malfoy shuddered at his touch. He dragged fingertips through Malfoy's crease and over softly puckered skin. Malfoy groaned. "Tell me you want me."

Malfoy nodded and pressed back against Harry's fingers.

"Say it."

Drawing in a shaky breath, Malfoy whispered, "I want you."

Harry pressed a fingertip in, twisting it slowly. Malfoy was hot and tight and Harry couldn't stop wondering how he'd feel around his prick. He groaned, leaning in to drag his mouth over Malfoy's shoulder. His skin tasted warm, salty, like a summer-warmed ocean. "Christ," he whispered, and he slid another finger in.

"Oh, God." With a gasp, Malfoy rocked against his hand. "_Please._ I need—" He broke off with soft cry, his shoulders trembling. "It's been so long."

Another twist of his fingertips and Harry leaned back, watching as they slid into Malfoy faster, harder. Malfoy writhed beneath him, pressing his cock into the mattress with soft groans and a whispered _Merlin_.

Harry's cock ached. He stroked it with his other hand, slicking it with oil. "I want to fuck you," he choked out and Malfoy jerked beneath his hand, tightening around his fingers.

"Please—"

Harry pulled his fingers away, pushed Malfoy onto his back. "I want to see your face," he said breathlessly.

"Just get inside me." Malfoy rocked against his hips, his hands grasping tightly at Harry's arms. He groaned and arched his neck, desperate. "I need this, oh Circe—"

Harry dug his fingers into Malfoy's thighs, spreading them wide, and he leaned in to kiss him as he pushed into him slowly.

Malfoy tangled his hands in Harry's hair, his thighs shaking as he arched into Harry's careful thrust. His mouth trailed across Harry's cheek to his temple. "Oh God," he whispered.

They moved together slowly at first, their bodies rocking against one another. The mattress shifted. The coverlet bunched beneath Harry's knees. He bent forward, Malfoy's legs draped over his arms, and he was so fucking deep inside it took his breath away. Malfoy flailed out, grasping the covers wildly, his fingers twisting in the heavy silk.

"More, Potter," he gasped, and a flush spread across his chest, down his stomach. "Come on, _fuck_ me." His cock bobbed between them, slapping against his skin with each rough thrust of Harry's hips against his arse. "Oh God, your prick—fuck me, Potter, _please_—Christ—"

Harry thrust into Malfoy, his fingers slipping over slick skin, his balls smacking hard against Malfoy's arse. "Like my cock in you, do you?" He shifted, Malfoy's legs sliding off his arms, and Harry shoved into him again, rubbing his stomach against Malfoy's prick.

Malfoy jerked at the coverlet and his arse slammed against Harry's hips. He dug his toes into the mattress and arched up. "Only when you're using it properly." His fingernails dragged down Harry's back, sharp and painful. Harry groaned and thrust harder.

They were slick and flushed, and Harry's hair fell into his eyes, catching on his sweaty temple. His body tensed and flexed, his balls tight, and he couldn't think—didn't want to think—just wanted to feel how fucking tight and hot and _amazing_ Malfoy's arse was around his prick. "Touch yourself," Harry said frantically. "So close—want to see you come—"

Malfoy's hand moved between them, curling around his cock, tugging roughly. "Harry," he breathed out, staring up at him. "Please, Harry."

Harry shuddered and jerked against him. "Come for me," he gasped. "Come on. Want to see you." He groaned and threw his head back, rocking into Malfoy again.

He could feel Malfoy tense around him, his thighs shaking as he pressed up against Harry with a cry, his hand flying over his cock. "Yes—oh God, yes—_Harry_—" He came hard and fast, spunk splattering over his fingers, against Harry's stomach, sticky-warm.

Harry didn't think he'd ever seen anything so fucking beautiful.

Malfoy reached for Harry's shoulder. "Your turn," he said breathlessly, and he dragged his fingers through the come and lifted them to Harry's mouth. "Taste."

The salty-bitterness on his tongue was Harry's undoing. He bit at Malfoy's fingertips and slammed into him, lifting Malfoy's arse from the bed. "Christ, what you do to me—" He fell forward, catching himself with palms on either side of Malfoy's shoulders as his cock shoved into Malfoy again and again and again.

"Potter," Malfoy cried out, and his fingernails dug into Harry's arms.

It was too much.

Harry came with a shout, heart pounding and body shaking as he collapsed on top of Malfoy, sucking in great gulps of air. His cock slid out of him slowly, wetly.

Malfoy smoothed his palms over Harry's hair, kissing the side of his neck.

"That," Harry said after a moment, his mouth pressed to Malfoy's shoulder, "was fucking incredible."

"Mmm." Malfoy nipped his earlobe. "It was adequate."

Harry rolled over, pulling Malfoy across his chest. He grinned up at him. "In that case, want to try again?"

Malfoy snorted, his hair tumbling over his cheek. "Don't tell me you're a sex fiend."

"I might be with you," Harry said, and he pulled Malfoy into a kiss.

***

The room was dark when Harry woke, and the bed next to him was empty.

"Malfoy?" he asked groggily, pushing himself up.

"You're awake." Malfoy sat curled on the window seat wrapped in a thin blanket, one shoulder gleaming pale in the moonlight. He didn't look at Harry.

Harry rubbed at his eyes and reached for his glasses, slipping them on. The world slid into focus. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Malfoy sounded distant. Tired. "You should go."

"It's the middle of the night." Harry rolled onto his side. "Don't you want to come back to bed?"

Malfoy looked over at him then, eyes dark in the shadows. "I don't think that'd be wise. And you should really go, Potter."

"Why?"

"You surely don't expect to breakfast with me and my son," Malfoy said, incredulous. "Are you mad?"

He had a point, Harry supposed. "So you're kicking me out," he said with a small smile.

"Yes."

Harry slid to the edge of the bed. "Can I see you tomorrow?"

There was a long pause, then Malfoy said _No_ quietly. He looked out the window again. "It's better if we didn't do this again."

"You're serious."

A silent nod, then, "Just go, Potter."

Harry's stomach twisted, and he reached for his jeans.

Malfoy didn't look back as Harry left the room.

***

Harry slipped into the kitchen silently, closing the door behind him.

"You've been out a while."

He whirled around. Ron sat at the table in his pyjamas, a mug of tea steaming in front of him.

"Have you been waiting up?" Harry asked, lifting his chin. "I'm an adult for Christ's sake, Ron."

Ron grunted and sipped his tea. "With a love bite, I see."

"Shit." Harry clapped his hand to his neck. His face flamed. Wonderful. Fabulous. Bloody fucking hell.

It wasn't the first time he'd been caught by Ron. After all, Ron'd been the one to find him and Viktor, following Harry to the Savoy that last night. He'd thought Harry'd decided to take a bird on the side; he'd not been entirely wrong, he'd discovered. Harry still wasn't quite certain how he and Viktor had made it out of the room alive, but Ron had just turned on his heel silently, his face pale, and Apparated immediately to Ginny.

"It's not what it looks like," Harry started.

"Really." Ron raised both eyebrows. "So if I were to match Malfoy's mouth to that mark on your neck..."

Harry looked away.

"That's what I thought," Ron said. He sighed. "What the hell are you thinking, Harry?"

"I don't know," Harry said softly and he met Ron's gaze. "I really don't."

Ron stood up and carried his mug over to the sink, dumping the tea down the drain. He rinsed the mug and set it aside, wiping his hands on a tea towel before turning back to Harry. "Was it worth it?" he asked at last.

"I don't know," Harry said again, staring down at the black and white chessboard tiles on the kitchen floor.

"Right then." Ron ran his hand over his head. "I should go to bed now that you're home. You should shower. You reek."

Harry leaned against the cooker. He ran his fingers over the gas marks. "I didn't mean to worry you."

Ron shrugged. "You've always been good at doing that, Harry," he said quietly and he flicked his wand towards the light hanging over the kitchen table. "Nox."

Harry stood alone in the dark for a long while after Ron left.

***

Malfoy's new office was nearly impossible to find.

Harry'd wandered the fourth level for twenty minutes after lunch before finally stumbling across it, tucked away between a broom closet and the Pest Advisory Board. A small black plaque fixed to the wall beside it read _Draco Malfoy, Children and Family Wizengamot Advisory and Support Services._ It looked oddly ostentatious and out-of-place in this dingy corridor.

"He ain't there."

"Pardon?" Harry turned; an older witch eyed him, a mop and bucket floating behind her.

"Just what I said." She tapped her wand against the broom closet door; it flew open and the bucket marched itself in, settling in the corner as the mop dropped into it. "He ain't there. Left early to take his son to the country, he said. Bit of a odd one, I say. Don't like to talk much, but he seems awfully lonesome."

"Oh." Harry frowned back at the door. "I suppose I could leave a note."

Dustcloths flew from the closet and stacked themselves neatly in the witch's hand. "Won't do no good. He won't be back this week."

"He told you this?"

"Old Maude knows things," the witch said, tapping her finger against her nose. "He left it on his cleaning form, now didn't he?"

"Right. Of course."

Maude nodded. "No bins to empty, no floors to sweep. He don't like people in there if he's not about, you see. Odd one, like I say."

The pip on Harry's shoulder squawked. "Potter?"

Harry tapped it. "Here."

"Shacklebolt. You need to come by my office. Immediately. There's something you should hear."

"On my way." Harry nodded to Maude. "Thanks."

Maude flicked a dustcloth open and with a twist of her wand sent it whizzing down the chair rail lining the corridor. "Welcome, Harry Potter." She winked at him and lowered her voice. "And don't be paying no mind to that Prophet rag. Terrible lies it tells. Always has."

"I won't." Harry gave her a small smile.

She caught the dustcloth in one hand as it zipped back up the hallway. "Well, off with you, lad. Don't be keeping Kingsley Shacklebolt waiting. Not a patient one there."

Harry looked back as he turned the corner. He was fairly certain Maude started a conversation with ficus outside the Goblin Liaison Office. He grinned and headed for the lift.

***

James was sitting across the desk from Shacklebolt, twisting his robe through his fingers nervously when Harry walked in.

Hary stopped, the door open behind him. "What's going on?" he asked sharply.

His son glanced at Shacklebolt, then back at his father. "I came to talk to Uncle Ron." James chewed his bottom lip and shifted in the chair. "Like you said I should."

Ron brushed past Harry, kicking the door shut. "Good, you're here." He had a stack of file folders in his hand.

"Would someone like to tell me what the bloody fuck—"

"Sit, Potter." With a wandwave, Shacklebolt sent a chair flying out towards Harry.

Harry sat. He looked over at his son; James stared down at his hands, fingers still pleating the wool of his robe. "Are you in trouble?"

"Maybe," James muttered. His red fringe hung in his eyes and he dragged the toe of his trainer over Shacklebolt's carpet.

Ron sat on the edge of the desk. "Tell him the last name of your flatmates, James."

James sighed and looked at Harry miserably. "Macnair."

"Shit," Harry said and he tensed in his seat. "_Our_ Macnairs?"

"One and the same." Ron handed him one of the folders. "Garda Síochána reports on one Naill and one Andrew Macnair, seen bopping about England and Scotland the past two years, claiming to be in the potion trade." Ron glanced at James. "Needless to say they weren't registered sales. They were brought in for questioning eight months back but nothing that could stick on them. Not like they were selling anything that couldn't be made by any Hogwarts student with a cauldron and a NEWT in Potions."

Harry's mouth tightened. "Were you brewing for them?" he snapped at James.

"No!" James slouched in his chair. "I'm bollocks at Potions, you know that."

Ron snorted. "So was your da until he stumbled on a certain book—"

"Shut it, Ron," Harry said. He looked back at James. "Did you know what they were doing?"

James rolled his eyes. "What do you think, Dad? Reckon I just whipped up Felix Felcis on my own?"

"And the mallowsweet?"

"I grew that." James shrugged. "It wasn't that hard. Just took a few clippings from the Forbidden Forest so Neville didn't catch on. He keeps that bloody shit under lock and key."

"So you knew these Macnairs before you left Hogwarts," Harry said, trying to remain calm. The muscle in his cheek twitched.

"Yeah." James looked chagrined. "I bought from them the past two terms, and after Christmas hols, they offered me a chance to go into business with them." He smoothed his palms over his wrinkled robe. "I figured what the hell."

Harry leaned back in his chair, forcing himself to breathe slowly. He was going to kill his son. Slowly and with a great deal of pain. "Okay." He turned to Shacklebolt. "Where are these boys?"

"We've sent Piers to collect them," Shacklebolt said. His chair squeaked as he leaned forward. "Do you want to continue, James?"

James puffed his cheeks, then let his breath out in a whoosh. "Not really, but I reckon I've no choice?"

"Not really," Shacklebolt said dryly and James' mouth twisted down.

"Right." He looked over at his father. "I might have mentioned to Niall on Sunday that you and Al and Lily would be out at the Tottenham match. I heard Mum telling Aunt Hermione about it when I went over to pick up a few things from my room that morning." He gave Harry a pleading look."I didn't know what he was going to do, Da. I didn't know about any of it until then, I swear. I thought they were just doing potions."

Harry pressed his knuckles to his mouth and looked away, disappointment roiling inside of him. His son. _Christ._

"If it wasn't for James," Ron said quietly, "we wouldn't have all the pieces, Harry. He came in with some Hythlodaeus correspondence." He handed Harry several sheets of parchment. "Look at the signature."

Harry sifted through the sheets, then looked back up. "AD."

"It's recent. Past four days." Ron's eyes sparked and he gave Harry a lazy grin, the way he had in their early days of Auror partnership. He was on the hunt, closing in, and he'd always loved that thrill. "What if the witnesses were wrong, Harry? Even Flitwick wasn't certain he'd killed him until corroborating testimony came in. What if he just lay there among the dead, pretending to be, until he could slip off and hide himself for the next twenty-five years?"

Harry nodded slowly, leaning forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees. "It's not impossible. But why now? Why set up some fake vigilante group?"

"Revenge." Ron pulled out a sheaf of papers. "It all fell together when James came to talk to me. I'd just reread your report from Malfoy the Elder, and we were just missing the common tie to all the attacks. If Dolohov's still alive it makes sense."

"I'm not following," Harry said, his brow furrowed.

"Give the man a chance to explain," Shacklebolt said. "Weasley, get to the point."

Ron spread the papers out on the desk."Right. Look, it all comes down to one person that everyone has in common. I went back to Walkenhorst's personnel files that we pulled ages ago." He slammed his hand on the first scrap of parchment. "Twenty-four years ago, he was a Ministry solicitor. Assigned to the War Crimes division."

"He prosecuted Death Eaters," Harry murmured, standing up to look over the papers.

"Right you are," Ron said. "And on the list of his particular convictions is Walden Macnair."

Harry tilted his head to one side. "Lestrange. He gave testimony against Macnair thinking it might get him off."

Ron picked up the next piece of parchment. "Exactly. Didn't work so well for him, what with the whole torturing and murdering of people that came out in his hearing. Although he was put on a better level of Azkaban, so I reckon he couldn't complain too horribly. And you? Well, you were all over those bloody hearings, mate. Not to mention the whole Saviour of the Wizarding World angle."

"I testified at Macnair's," Harry said slowly. He met Ron's eyes. "But it wasn't my testimony that convicted him. Malfoy was there too. After me. His testimony was admitted as eyewitness evidence."

"Shit," Ron murmured, and the room was silent.

James leaned forward. "Dad?"

"Not now, Jamie," Harry said absently, but he looked down at his son's hand on his arm.

"Malfoy's kid, he's Al's friend, right? The one who talks strange, can't hear?"

Harry nodded. "Why?"

James ran a hand through his hair, his eyes worried. "I didn't think anything of it, they're always talking about selling potions to kids and all, so it just goes in one ear and out the other, but this morning Andy, he was telling Niall that the deaf kid would be ready today. This afternoon."

Shacklebolt and Ron both looked Harry. "You're sure that's what he said?" Harry asked, and James nodded.

"They never said his name, but..."

"Weasley's team," Shacklebolt said sharply. "Take them to Malfoy's house? Where's he live?"

"Number 18 Morwell Street. Just off Bedford Square." Harry shook his head. "But he's not there. Supposedly he took Scorpius to the country for the week—"

"Fucking shit." Ron shoved the papers back into the folder. "We'll have to track him; that could be bloody anywhere outside of London."

Shacklebolt was already barking orders into his pip, sending Aurors to Bloomsbury.

"Don't let Manchester and Liverpool hear you say that." Harry stood up, reaching for his wand.

"Wickford will start tracking Malfoy's magical signature from his house," Shacklebolt said. "Meet them there."

Harry nodded and he turned to James. "Stay here. Do _not_ leave this floor, do you understand?"

James nodded.

"Good." Harry touched his son's face. "Floo your Mum and tell her to go home and stay inside with Al and Lils." He looked at Shacklebolt. "You'll send more Aurors over to her?"

Shacklebolt nodded and Harry turned for the door, following Ron out.

He wouldn't let himself think about the panic bubbling up inside of him.

***

"Nothing," Wickford said, running a hand through his hair in frustration as he looked around Malfoy's foyer. "Just a trail to the Ministry and that's it. I can't find anything else that's recent." He looked sideways at Harry. "Your signature's showing up, sir." He coughed softly. "Upstairs."

"It would," Ron muttered and Harry jabbed him with his elbow.

"Keep trying," Harry said. When Wickford walked away, Harry slammed his palm against the wall. "Fuck it."

Ron grabbed his arm. "Breathe, Harry."

"I—" Harry slumped against the wall. "What if they're dead?"

"Malfoy's like a doxy, Harry," Ron said, leaning next to him. "Can't be rid of either of them; they're they only two things that'll survive the end of the world. Total apocalypse, uninhabitable planet and there you go. Malfoy and doxies."

Harry gave him a venomous glare. "Not funny, Ron."

"Was to me." Ron stared at the vase of lilies on the foyer table. After a moment, he turned his head towards Harry. "You like him, don't you?"

"Malfoy?"

Ron's mouth twisted to the side. "No, the Minister. Yes, Malfoy."

Harry let his head fall back against the wall, pressed his shoulders back into the firm plaster. He could almost feel Malfoy's mouth on his throat, could almost smell his hair as it brushed his cheek. "Yeah," he said finally. "I do."

"Thought so." Ron caught his thumbs in the edges of his pockets. "No chance of you and Gin mending things, is there?"

"Probably not." Harry looked over at him. "Would you want us to?"

Ron took a minute to answer, and the late afternoon sunlight filtering through the window behind him gilded his pale cheek. "No. I reckon I'd rather her be happy with someone." He pushed off the wall. "You too, I guess," he added quietly.

"You mean that?"

"I wouldn't say it if I didn't." Ron ran his hand over the white-painted doorjamb. "So where the fuck would Malfoy go in the country? He doesn't exactly seem like the type to head out with a knapsack."

Harry snorted. "More like a three-storey tent with running water and loos." He laughed softly. "Tit."

And then it hit him.

"Ron." Harry grabbed his arm. "The Manor. Wiltshire's in the country."

***

Aurors fanned out across the unkempt lawn of Malfoy Manor, Disillusionment Charms blending them into trees and bushes.

"You're certain about this?" Ron asked as he and Harry moved closer to the front door. The Manor wards crackled across their skin; an albino peacock fluttered up into the lower branches of an ancient eucryphia. "We're not showing either of their magical signatures."

Harry nodded. "It has to be. There must be blocking wards left over from the war or something."

"Right. So how do you propose we get in? Just go waltzing in without a care?"

" Actually," Harry said with a grin, "yes." He shook off his Disillusionment Charm. The peacock cocked its head and called loudly across the lawn as Harry climbed the steps. "Keep the others back for now."

"Harry, you idiot—" Ron hurried after him, dropping his own charm. "If you think you're going in alone—"

The door swung open at Harry's touch.

"Oh, that's just not good," Ron muttered, gripping his wand tighter. "It's like one of those Muggle films of yours where no matter how you shout at the idiot _not_ to go in, they do anyway. Bloody stupid dolts. That's what we are, Harry. Dolts."

"Been watching them again, have you?" Harry moved further into the darkened hall, his steps echoing on the marble floor. "Wondered why Hermione hadn't sent them back over to me."

Ron motioned for the other Aurors to stay back. "Rose keeps playing the damned things when she's home. Says it's for her Muggle Studies class, but I'm not certain I believe her."

"Malfoy," Harry called. "You here?"

The entrance hall was silent.

_Upstairs_, Ron mouthed, and Harry shook his head and pointed further down the hall. Ron nodded and they moved deeper into the house, away from the still-open door. They turned the corner into the parlour, wands raised.

It was empty, but the far door was cracked open.

Ron and Harry exchanged glances.

Harry pushed the door open. "Malfoy?"

Bookshelves filled the walls, rising up into a second storey accessible by a curved iron staircase. Half the books were gone; the rest were dimmed by a layer of dust over the Preserving Charm that every so often glinted through. Tall windows between the bookcases cast paned shadows across the faded Aubusson.

Malfoy sat at a wide desk in the corner of the room, face ashen, his hands flattened on the blotter in front of him. "You should get out of here, Potter," he said softly. His mouth was bloodied; his pale cheek bruised.

"Where's Scorpius?" Harry hurried towards him and Malfoy shook his head.

"Get out," he said again and he tried to move, only to jerk slightly, his body caught on the desk and chair.

"Shit." Harry flicked his wand towards Malfoy with a _Finite Incantatem_; Malfoy tumbled across the desk with a soft cry. He lifted his reddened palms and rubbed them. Blood seeped from small tears in his fingertips, smearing across his skin.

Harry caught Malfoy's shoulders, pulling him up gently as Malfoy winced in pain. "Where are they?"

"I don't know." Malfoy's eyes were anguished. "Scorpius—they hit him and he just collapsed and I couldn't fucking do _anything—_" His voice cracked with rage; Harry knew he'd feel the same if it'd been any of his children. Christ, he felt the same _now._ "They carried him upstairs. I have to find him, Potter."

"We'll find him," Harry said softly. "I promise. Where's your wand?"

"They took it."

Ron started up the staircase. "There's a door up here, Harry."

"Can you stand?" Harry asked Malfoy, and he nodded, only shaking slightly before steadying himself.

"I'm fine," Malfoy said.

Harry glared at him. "The country? Really? What the hell were you thinking? And how the hell did you manage to slip away from the Auror outside your house?"

"It wasn't that difficult," Malfoy said tightly. "And you know exactly what I was thinking."

"No, I don't, because if you'll recall, you threw me out of bed without _talking_ about why you'd decided to do that. It was just 'better' all around, remember?"

Malfoy's brows drew together; he caught himself on the back of the chair. "Honestly, sometimes you're so bloody _thick_—"

"Harry, if the two of you are done?" Ron snapped. "Door. Here."

"Fine. We're coming." Harry pulled back and they followed Ron up the steps and into an upper hallway. "What's up here?" Harry asked.

"Guest bedrooms. Father's personal study." Malfoy shook his head. "Nothing much."

"Let's try the study," Ron said. "Which room?"

Malfoy led them down the hall, and up two steps into another corridor, narrower, with arched leaded glass windows down one wall. A sconce flickered between them. "Third door on the left."

"Right," Harry said and he curled his fingers around the hilt of his wand. "Call them in?" he asked Ron, and Ron touched the pip on his shoulder, murmuring directions to his team outside.

They hesitated outside the door, and Harry looked over at Ron. He didn't even have to say anything; he just raised an eyebrow and Ron tilted his head towards the door and nodded.

With a burst of white light, the door exploded, sending bits of wood flying across the corridor. A tiny wisp of smoke curled from Ron's wand.

"Impressive," a boy drawled from inside the room.

Harry stepped in, wand pointed at him. He recognised one of James' flatmates—the tall one, with sandy brown hair and a pug nose. "Andrew or Niall?"

"Who do you think, Potter?" The boy's smile grew wider.

"I think neither," Harry said as Ron moved behind him and Malfoy. "Are you ready to drop this farce or not?"

"Perhaps." The boy stood up, stepped away from the desk. "Niall, bring him in."

A door opened at the side of the room, and another boy stepped out, dark-haired and stocky, with Scorpius in tow. His glasses were gone and blood dripped from a deep gash over his temple, long crimson rivulets that curled over his cheek and down his neck, staining his shirt. "Father," Scorpius cried, and he tried to pull away from Niall.

"Scorpius—"

Harry caught Malfoy before he stepped forward; he looked at Andrew. "Drop the glamour."

A smile flitted across the boy's face. "As you wish." He waved his wand lazily over himself, and the glamour shimmered before falling. His hair darkened, then greyed, growing longer until it curled over his collar; his shoulders broadened, he grew a handspan taller, a beard filled in. "Better?"

"Antonin Dolohov," Malfoy breathed out, and he grabbed at Harry's arm.

Dolohov dipped a small bow in his direction then turned back to Harry. "So lovely getting to know your son as of late. James is a rather special lad."

"Fuck off." Harry tightened his fingers on his wand.

Malfoy couldn't stop staring at Dolohov. "You're supposed to be dead."

"Bloody state the obvious, why don't you?" Ron muttered, and Harry stepped on his booted toes. Ron rolled his eyes.

"Dead is such a subjective term," Dolohov said with a faint smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Truly incredible what people are willing to believe with just the slightest bit of inducement. Memory's a tricky thing, wouldn't you say?"

Harry pulled Malfoy back behind him. "What do you want with the boy? Let him go. You can have me instead."

"A noble trade." Dolohov studied him, and he twirled his wand through his fingers. "But I think not. You see, I've considered—after a great deal of direct observation in recent days—what exactly young Malfoy here might be the most harmed by. He requires punishment, you see, and while I at first considered taking his own life, it seemed far more fitting to take his boy from him. Force him to go through life entirely alone. Like he did for me."

Malfoy shook his head. "I don't know what you're on about—"

"Don't play the fool." Dolohov moved closer; his knuckles were pale against his ebony wand. "Sixteen years I was with Walden, and your testimony sent him to Azkaban with no way of me ever seeing him again."

"Macnair?" Malfoy blinked and he looked at Harry. "This is about _Macnair_?"

Harry shrugged. "So he's a little obsessive. I think he's pretty much proven by now that he's just perhaps a _slight_ bit off his nut." Scorpius was watching them, his eyes flicking between Harry and his father, his body tense as he strained away from Niall's grasp. Harry fixed his gaze on the boy, willing him to stay still. The last bloody thing they needed was for him to break free right now.

"Must be a Death Eater trait." Ron stepped next to Harry, blocking Malfoy behind them. "Look, you stupid fucker, you let the kid go, we let you live. Seems like an even trade to me, unless you're forgetting Harry here sent the Dark Lord himself packing a few years back." He paused, considering. "Oh, wait, right, you probably missed that part of the battle what with the pretending to be dead and all. Pity."

Dolohov raised an eyebrow. "Baiting me will not get you the reaction you wish, I'm afraid." He smiled, a thin, nasty twist of his mouth. "Uncle Ron."

"No, but it's a fuck of a lot of fun, _Dolly._" Ron raised his wand. "Ready, Harry?

Perhaps it was the tensing of Dolohov's fingers on his wand. Or the slight shift of his eyes to the side. Or the set of his shoulders, angling towards Scorpius with just the slightest turn of his body.

"Ron," Harry shouted, just as Dolohov whirled, and he threw himself forward with a snap of his wand towards Niall. The boy collapsed; the Stunner sent him stumbling back against the wall, and Harry slammed into Scorpius, knocking him into the floor as Dolohov's Sectumsempra burst across his chest.

He screamed.

Blood spattered across Scorpius's horrified face, bright red over his pale cheek, and Harry could hear the shouts behind him, could hear the thud of boots as the Auror team found them finally.

"Harry," someone said, "Harry—" and hands were pulling at his fingers, loosening them from Scorpius's arms. "Harry." The voice drifted closer, floating around him as the hands turned him over. He took a breath—oh _Christ_ it hurt and there was a rattling suck—and when he coughed, he could taste blood. A face hovered over him, pale and blond.

"Beautiful," he whispered, trying to touch the soft skin, but he couldn't move, couldn't reach. Hurt. Fucking _hurt_—

The mouth moved, slowly. "Don't you fucking die on me, you fucking shit—"

He tried to shake his head, but the face pulled back, darkening, fading, and Harry fell into the blackness.

***

His whole fucking body ached.

Harry didn't want to move. Didn't want to open his eyes. He could hear the steady click of monitoring equipment—which meant he had to be in St Mungo's.

"I think his eyes fluttered," Ginny whispered. Harry could feel her fingers slide over his forehead, smoothing back his hair.

There was a familiar snort. "You've been saying that for three bloody days," Malfoy said.

"Eventually he'll wake up." Ginny sighed. "You should really get some proper rest. I'll stay here if you want to go home for a while."

A pause, then sharply, "I'll stay." Another silence. "If I leave he'll do something ridiculously stupid. Like die."

"Draco." Ginny's voice was soft.

"Don't."

They fell quiet. Harry could hear the creaks of their chairs as they shifted, the soft huffs of breath when they sighed. His eyelids were so fucking heavy.

"Look." He could smell Gin's perfume—roses and freesia from Paris—as she bent over him. He'd bought it for her every anniversary—not of their marriage, but of the first time they'd slept together. The fifth of August. She'd been so beautiful beneath him—

"All right," Malfoy said over his ear. "_That_ was a flutter."

Harry tried to open his mouth. It barely moved.

"I'll go for the Healer." Ginny's heels clicked across the floor.

Malfoy's fingers carded through Harry's hair. "I know you're in there, you bastard," he said, but his voice was gentle. "I'll never forgive you if you don't wake up."

_I know_, Harry thought and he cracked his eyes slightly and swallowed. His throat was sore, his lips dry. He moved his mouth; it ached too. "I know," he said, and his voice cracked, caught in the back of his throat.

Malfoy stumbled backwards. "Fuck—"

"Hi," Harry whispered as Ginny came back into the room, Healers on her heels. He caught a glimpse of Malfoy's face, stunned and pale, before the bed was surrounded by white robes, and wands were out, pressing against his throat and chest.

"Malfoy," he said, trying to sit up, only to be pushed back against the bed with clucks of _Mr Potter, really, you needn't exert yourself._

The door to his room snicked shut.

***

Harry was starting to hate rice pudding.

He pushed the bowl away and leaned back against the enormous stack of pillows Albus and Lily had brought for him earlier in the morning. "I'm really ready to leave, you know."

Ginny turned a page in the new issue of Quidditch Monthly. "I'm sure." She crossed her legs and settled back in her chair.

Harry sighed heavily and stared out the window at a warm, green pastoral landscape that he damned well knew didn't exist in the middle of London. Sheep grazed on a faraway hill. "I'm bored."

"You're not leaving until the Healers give permission." Ginny lowered her magazine, her face incredulous. "You took a direct Sectumsempra to your chest, Harry. It collapsed your lung and sliced into your bloody heart. Do you know how long it took the Healers just to stop the bleeding?"

"Three hours and eighteen minutes," Harry said dully. "And another six to reconstruct the damage. I _was_ listening to them, Gin." He scratched across his hospital gown, rubbing the thin cotton over his bandages. "But it's been four days. I should be able to go home."

Ginny smacked his leg with the magazine. "Well, you're not. So stop whinging. It's getting annoying."

He stared up at the ceiling and Ginny sighed. She leaned against the edge of his bed, her chin propped against her fist. "It's not just being stuck here, is it?"

Harry didn't answer for a moment and then he turned his head towards her and ran his hand over her soft, red curls. "No."

Ginny caught his hand and slipped her fingers through his, pressing them to her cheek. "You know, he was here from the moment they brought you in. He wouldn't leave. I had to send Scorpius home with Hermione; she and Ron have been looking after him and Al and Lils." She rubbed her thumb over his knuckle. "Draco and I spent a lot of time talking."

"Draco, is it now?" Harry winced as he shifted in the bed, turning towards his wife.

"Do you care about him, Harry?" Ginny's eyes were steady and soft.

Harry traced the curve of her thumb with his. "Does it matter?"

She nodded. "You'd be an idiot not to, and I never thought I'd say that to you." She laughed softly and pulled back, her fingers sliding away from Harry's. "Especially not about Draco Malfoy, but there you go. Three days, Harry. And he wouldn't leave. The staff brought food in for us, I had to force him to go to the loo, and I'm fairly certain he only slept a few hours the entire time."

"Well, I did save his son's life," Harry murmured, and Ginny touched his face, turning it towards her.

"That's not why he did it." She shook her head. "So I'm going to ask you again. Do you care about him, and if you say no, I swear I'll deck you, wounded or not, and you know I can."

Harry pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and stared down at his lap. The sheet was bunched at his hips; he twisted his fingers in it. "Yeah. I think I do. I think I could."

Ginny dropped her hand over his. "Okay then. I think you should tell him."

"Gin—"

"You should," she said firmly.

Harry studied her for a moment. "I thought you were angry with me—"

"Wondering if you might die for three days rather put things in perspective." Ginny leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs again. "I still think you're a giant prick for what you did to me—Draco entirely agrees on that score, by the way—and I'd rather not think too much about it and don't even _ask_ me what I'd like to do to Zacharias Smith at the moment. At least Krum had the decency not to be a whore for the Prophet." She twisted her hands together, staring down at them. "But I don't hate you for it, and we've kids to raise together. And I reckon they're more important than my wounded pride. They deserve to be with their dad some."

"Really?"

Ginny looked up at him. "Really. I've already talked to Cratsley. Fifty-fifty and holidays are negotiable as we both see fit." She smiled faintly. "I suppose we'll both have to be adults about it now."

Harry touched her hand. "I can try to do that."

"You'd best." She squeezed his fingers. "There's a clause that says I can haul your damned arse in front of the Wizengamot if you decide to be a bastard again."

Harry laughed.

***

Slipping into a robe with limited motion wasn't the easiest thing in the world to do. Harry gritted his teeth as he lifted his arm, crooking it to slide into the sleeve. "Fuck."

A knock on the door caught his attention. "Need help?" James stepped into the room, a nervous expression on his face.

"I could stand that." Harry pulled the robe over his shoulders. "Think you could do a buttoning charm for me? Can't quite hold my wand properly yet."

"Uncle Ron's signing the paperwork for your release." James cast the charm, not looking at Harry for a moment. "I didn't mean for this to happen."

Harry nodded. "I know."

His son fisted his hands at his sides, tensing his fingers as he drew a shaky breath. "Dad—"

"Jamie," Harry said and he pulled his son to him, feeling James relax at his touch. "You're my Jamie, all right? You always will be. That's just part of me being your da."

"Christ." James pressed his face into Harry's shoulder and his hands gripped the back of Harry's arms. "I'm so sorry, Dad—"

Harry smoothed James' hair back, suppressing the wince of pain. "It's done with. No worries. Right?"

James pulled back, his face flushed and his eyes bright. He dug in his pocket and pulled out four small scraps of paper. Muggle tickets. "Tottenham's playing Saturday next against Arsenal and I thought you might like company watching the scum get their arses trounced back to Ashburton Grove?"

"Isn't there a Portree match that weekend?"

His son gave him a small smile. "I'd rather football. I figured Al and Lils might be up for it too before they have to head back to school."

"They might at that." Harry's throat tightened. "It sounds brill to me. We'll make a day of it."

"Not too much of a day." James gave him a sober look. "You're still recovering."

"You sound like your mum." Harry wrapped an arm around James' waist.

James grinned. "She said to remind you."

Harry rolled his eyes as Ron came in, waving Harry's discharge papers.

***

"So do you think I should go see him?" Harry set his bottle down and looked across the table at Ron. The kitchen was quiet for the moment; Rose and Hermione had taken Albus and Lily back to Ginny and Hugo was upstairs with his nose buried in a book.

Ron nearly choked on his beer. "Malfoy?" He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and coughed.

"Yeah." Harry scraped his thumbnail over the bottle label. "Gin practically threatened me if I didn't."

"Yeah, well, my sister's a bit mad at times." Ron leaned against the wall, his arm propped on the back of his chair, one bare foot resting on the edge of the seat. He wrinkled his nose. "Do you really want to go?"

Harry fingered the blue-striped curtains at the window next to him. "Maybe." His chest still ached despite the pain potions he was taking. The Healers had told him it would for a while. The scars were red and swollen, long curved lines that radiated from his sternum across his chest, his shoulder, his hip.

"Harry," Ron said, and Harry knew that _don't give me shit_ tone. "I'm not going to say the whole idea of you with Malfoy doesn't make me a bit ill. Frankly, if you're going to insist on being a poof I don't bloody well see why you can't go back to Krum—"

Harry rolled his eyes and took a swig of his beer.

"—but I can't stand you moping about like this either." Ron rubbed his palm over his knee, calluses catching on the denim of his jeans. "Go see him or don't go see him. But make your decision and stick to it, mate. Stop fucking around on this; you've already broken my sister's heart, no use bollocksing up your own. So, do you want to go see Malfoy?"

"Yeah," he said finally. "I do."

Ron picked up his beer again. "Then I reckon you have your answer, right?"

***

Scorpius opened the door.

"Mr Potter," he said, eyes widening. He pushed the sleeves of his too-large jumper up over his thin wrists. Evidently he'd been taking dressing lessons from Al, Harry thought.

"I think we're past that now, don't you think?" Harry grinned at the boy. _Call me Harry,_ he signed.

Scorpius laughed. _Okay,_ his fingers spelled out. _Harry._

"Is your father in?" Harry stepped into the foyer. He recognised Ron's touch in the wards that slid over his skin.

"Back garden." Scorpius motioned for him to follow. "He said it was too nice to stay indoors."

Two elves looked up in surprise as they wound their way through the kitchen; Scorpius ignored them, and pushed open a French door. "Out there," he said.

It was a small garden, walled and edged with ivy that crept up the crumbling red brick. Purple and white crocuses spread across one corner of the tiny scrap of lawn; the new grass was soft and springy beneath Harry's boots.

"Hey," he said, stopping behind Malfoy's chair.

Papers went flying; Malfoy turned quickly, his hand catching on the cushion. "Harry. You've been released."

Harry squatted next to him. "I have." He ran a finger over the curlicued iron arm of the chair. "You didn't come back to see me."

"I thought it would be inappropriate." Malfoy gathered his papers up and tucked them back in their folder. He dropped it on the other side of the chair.

"Three days watching me sleep and you thought coming to say hello, hope you're feeling better was inappropriate?" Harry raised an eyebrow. "I reckon you were just scared of Gin."

"As if I'd ever be frightened of a Weasley." Malfoy snorted and pushed himself out of the chair. "Oh, do stand up; you look like you're about to fall on your arse." He held a hand out; Harry took it, steadying himself as he rose. Malfoy's skin was soft and warm.

Malfoy let go of his hand, and Harry felt oddly bereft. "You're better then."

"I'm off duty for a few weeks," Harry said. "I'm supposed to be resting."

"And how is that going for you?"

Harry grinned. "Well, I'm not in bed, so..."

Malfoy shook his head. "You'll end up back in hospital, Potter, and—"

"It's Harry." Harry met his gaze. "You called me Harry before."

A pink flush crept over Malfoy's face. He wandered across the garden. "Slip of the tongue."

"Well, it can keep slipping. Draco." Harry liked the way that sounded. "How are you and Scorpius? The wards have been strengthened." He glanced back at the house as he stepped through the crocuses, following Malfoy. Draco. Harry smiled.

"The Weasel showed up yesterday." Draco frowned. "He said it was standard procedure."

Harry snorted. "It's not."

"If he slipped any surveillance charms in there, I'll have his arse in front of the Wizengamot," Draco snapped. He settled against a tree trunk. Harry watched as his hair caught on the bark.

"He didn't." Harry pressed his palm to the trunk, leaning in slightly. Draco's eyes shifted; he flushed again. "It's just a precaution. We don't really think the Macnairs will retaliate."

Draco pulled a half-furled leaf from the tree and rubbed it between his fingers. It left a green stain on his thumb and he wiped it on his robe. "You don't really think. How reassuring." He sighed. "As for Scorpius and I, we appear to be... coping. At least the nightmares have stopped."

Harry frowned. "Scorpius is having nightmares?"

"No," Draco said quietly. "I am." He stared across the garden, his jaw clenched.

He didn't pull away when Harry smoothed his fingertips over his cheek. "Draco."

"I shouldn't care, I suppose. The world would be better off sans one more ridiculously stupid Gryffindor. But there _was_ rather a lot of your blood everywhere."

"Draco," Harry said again and this time Draco looked at him. "I didn't die on you."

A small smile played across Draco's mouth. "I suppose I should be grateful for that." He leaned his head back against the tree trunk and took a shaky breath. "I took Scorpius to the Ministry yesterday."

Harry blinked and pulled back a bit. "All right?"

"It was the first day of Father's hearing." Draco crossed his arms over his chest. The white cotton of his shirt pulled tight across his shoulders. "I thought perhaps..." He paused and caught his lip between sharp teeth. "A boy should know his grandfather if he can."

"Yeah," Harry murmured. "Are you okay?"

Draco raised a shoulder eloquently. "I will be." He gave Harry a wry smile. "Maybe a man should know his father too."

"It's a lot fucking harder than it looks like," Harry said, "this whole being a dad."

"You think perhaps?" Draco snorted and rolled his eyes. "A veritable font of wisdom you are, Harry."

Harry grinned. "I can be sometimes." He fell silent and brushed his knuckles over Draco's jaw. A faint stubble scraped across his skin, and Harry's breath caught. "I could fall for you, Malfoy," Harry whispered.

"I thought it was Draco now." Draco watched him with inscrutable eyes.

Harry curled his palm over Draco's cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of Draco's bottom lip. He could smell him, the faint hint of Earl Grey on Draco's breath, the clean lavender scent of Marseille soap when Draco turned his head.

"You realise this is mad," Draco whispered and Harry nodded. "You barely know me."

"I've known you nearly all my life."

Draco shook his head, and his breath was warm against Harry's wrist. "I'm not the boy I was. And neither are you. You don't even know for certain whom you are, Harry. Or what you want."

A swallow landed in the branches above them, twittering softly. "I know a bit better now." Harry leaned closer. "I'm not Asteria, Draco. And I might be absolute bollocks at this, but I want to try. With you."

"You're an idiot," Draco said, but his hand was on Harry's shoulder, fingers toying with the fringe of hair over Harry's collar.

"Maybe." Harry brushed his lips across Draco's. "Want to be one with me?"

"Maybe," Draco whispered, and his mouth was warm and wet and open against Harry's.

A whistle and cheer rang out across the garden; Harry looked back in surprise. Scorpius and Albus, of all bloody people, were leaning out of a first-storey window, grins on their faces.

"Oh, for Circe's sake," Draco muttered. His cheeks were splotched with pink.

"Albus Severus, what the bloody hell are you doing here?" Harry asked, but he didn't pull away from Draco.

His son folded his arms on the windowsill. "What do you think? Scorpius Flooed me." He grinned at Harry.

"Well, bugger off, will you?"

"Harry," Draco murmured. He pulled back and his fingers flew, signing sharply at his son. Scorpius rolled his eyes and pulled Albus back into the room, shutting the window behind them.

"That," Harry said, "was impressive."

Draco smirked. "You have to go for the jugular. Threaten the pocket money."

"You are a vicious man, Draco Malfoy." Harry pushed him back against the tree. "Now, where were we?"

"As I recall, you were convincing me that it would be an excellent idea to be an idiot with you?" Draco smoothed his palms over Harry's shoulders.

Harry pressed his forehead to Draco's and the rims of his glasses bumped Draco's nose. "Think you might give me a shot? See what happens?"

"I'm not promising anything," Draco murmured and he tangled his fingers in Harry's hair.

"You don't have to." Harry gripped Draco's hips with both hands. "We can take it slowly if you want. It's entirely up to you—"

"Harry," Draco said, his lips brushing Harry's, "just shut up and kiss me."

Harry did.


End file.
